


Exquisite

by copperbadge



Category: White Collar
Genre: Bondage, Episode Tag, Multi, Submission, Threesome, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-12
Updated: 2010-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:03:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 172,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a place in Neal Caffrey's head where he doesn't have to lie to himself or be three steps ahead of the other guy, but so far only Peter has found it -- and Peter won't give him what he really wants. Elizabeth, meanwhile, is slowly adjusting to the idea of abetting felons...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Dove, Anya, Foxy, Spider, and tzikeh for their betas; also thanks to Kali and rm for making me want to write more. 
> 
> This story basically follows S1 with a twist. I've lifted a few scenes from actual show dialogue, occasionally altering it, and I've also mildly changed a few of the show's timelines to either make them make more sense or fit them into the story. It's probably best to think of this as an _extremely_ mild AU.
> 
> Warnings for some violence and brief discussion of child abuse.

Three years is a long time.

Three years is a long term relationship. Three years is around the time that your parents start asking when you're going to get married. Or, if they're liberal, when you're going to have kids.

Three years is the time from gestation to talking, if you have a kid.

It was a long time to flirt with Neal Caffrey.

Peter knew it for what it was, even as he was chasing Caffrey, stalking him, learning him. It was a flirtation; there was just no other word that fit so well. Caffrey knew it too, though he might have found a better term for it. He definitely knew that Peter Burke was out to get him, and Peter was smart, and Caffrey liked smart. When he almost caught Caffrey in the Library of Congress, he thought the guy might lie low for a while, but that wasn't Caffrey's style.

Instead, he started leaving puzzles.

Not clues as to where he was or where he'd hit next; that wasn't his style either and was all a little "IN A DEADLY GAME OF CAT AND MOUSE" for either one of them. Just puzzles that would explain how precisely he did it. A bundle of papers showing where he'd got that car or this coat or the ink and paper to do the forging. An easel and a set of paints and the oven, still on, still warm like it was keeping Peter's dinner, set at 125. His annotated road map of routes to a bank. Some book binding tools. That kind of thing.

Peter loved the puzzles. They'd box them up and take them back to his office and he'd sit there for hours figuring out precisely what Caffrey did to get away with ten, fifteen, twenty grand, with a priceless sculpture or a handful of antique trinkets. He couldn't prove any of it actually was Caffrey, but he and Caffrey knew, and that was what counted.

It was soothing. No running, no sideways cynical thinking, just...assembling. Then he'd sit back when he was done and find himself smiling. _What a clever boy you are, Neal Caffrey_. And he'd go home and tell El all about what Caffrey had done this time. 

"Sometimes I think you're proud of him," she said once, curled against him on the couch, feet tucked up, sharing a bottle of wine after a long day.

"Proud!" he snorted. "I want to catch the bastard, El."

"Yeaaaah, but..." she said.

"But?"

"I think you like playing with him, too."

He considered, for a minute, taking offense to the idea that he was doing less than his best to catch Neal Caffrey. He _was_ doing his best. He was confident he would catch him. But it was an awful lot of energy to expend, being offended at one's wife, and she kind of had a point. Besides, she knew he could work hard and still enjoy the chase.

"I like playing with you more," he said, and she laughed and kissed him, and then Caffrey was the last thing on his mind.

Okay, maybe second-to-last. In those days, Caffrey was never actually gone entirely.

Perhaps things would have been different, in the end, if one of Caffrey's puzzles had led Peter to him. The puzzles might, in fact, have been insurance: _if you catch me, G-man, it's because I let you_. Peter might have been just a hint less confident in his dealings with Caffrey if he knew it wasn't entirely his own efforts that brought Caffrey down. But when they finally tripped him up, when Peter finally had the pleasure of standing in a room with his -- prey, playmate, puzzle-maker -- and capturing him, he could glory in the thrill of a clean win. Neal hadn't even made a mistake. Peter had just been too fast for him.

That was where the game ended: in a windowless room, with a handful of cops at the door, Peter with his gun and Caffrey with his hands upraised, blue eyes wide and...

Very young. That was what Peter remembered thinking. God, he looked so young, so surprised, so lost.

"Keep 'em up," he said.

"Okay," Caffrey said quietly.

"You armed?"

Caffrey gave a small, an infinitesimal shake of his head. "I don't like guns."

Peter hesitated. Then he lowered his gun just a fraction, and tilted his head. "You don't carry a gun because you don't _like_ guns?"

The other man smiled a little. "Agent Burke, I thought you knew everything about me."

"What kind of moron doesn't carry a gun in your line of work?" Peter demanded.

"Seriously? You finally got me and that's what you want to know?" Caffrey asked.

"It's a start," Peter told him.

"Look, I allegedly -- _allegedly_ forge things," Caffrey said. "There's not a lot of call for firearms in that business."

"You are so fucking lucky I caught you before you got shot," Peter told him, and gave a sharp whistle. Cops poured into the room. "Stay right there."

Caffrey didn't move as Peter came forward, which was oddly gratifying. He didn't even lower his arms until Peter grasped one of his wrists and pulled it down behind him.

"Come on, Agent Burke, I get cramps when you do it from behind," Caffrey said.

"Oh, funny man," Peter muttered, wrapping a secure-lock ziptie around his wrist. Handcuffs had not traditionally proven effective on Caffrey, as half a dozen podunk midwestern police officers had found out on various occasions. The only way to get out of the special-issue zipties was to cut them.

"I do my best," Caffrey replied. Peter slid a second tie through the first and closed it around his other wrist. Caffrey twitched his hands experimentally. "Soooo, how's the wife?"

"Fine," Peter answered without missing a beat. "I'm taking her out to dinner tonight."

"Oh? Celebrating?"

"Something like that," Peter agreed.

"I thought you'd be wearing a nicer suit."

Peter felt a little insulted. It was a good hardwearing suit. El had picked it out for him. "Yeah, well, civil servant," he retorted.

"How'd you do it?" Caffrey asked, turning slightly. Peter caught him by one arm, then slowly let him turn. "How'd you know where to find me?"

Peter grinned. "You figure it out. You'll have a lot of time to think about it. Neal Caffrey, you are under arrest for felony fraud. You have the right to remain silent..."

That had been a sweet day. Granted, they hadn't caught his accomplices, or at least -- well, they hadn't caught one of them, and they couldn't pin anything on Caffrey's girlfriend, not for lack of trying. Victory was untainted, however, and the evidence was solid. Even the mid-range lawyer Caffrey hired to defend him couldn't crack their case, and Peter Burke put Neal Caffrey away for four years.

Well, sometimes you took your victories where you could get 'em. He'd have parole afterwards, anyway, and that'd make him easy (easier) to track.

But once in a while...especially a few days before his birthday, when Neal Caffrey sent him a damn birthday card, Peter would lie in bed and wonder. His conclusions for three years were, oddly, the same: Caffrey would get out, Caffrey would get away, and Caffrey would start again.

And then he'd get to chase him again.

"Do they bother you?" El asked him, the third year he got a birthday card from Caffrey. He'd been sitting at his desk, holding it, absently running his thumb along the edge. "The cards?"

"They should," he said. "But I don't think he means to taunt me."

"Then what do you think he means?"

Peter shrugged. "He's probably bored. It's something to do."

"Are you bored?"

Peter looked up sharply. "What?"

El smiled at him. "Are you bored? This latest case..."

It had been a heroin ring being run out of a private high school; not really in his line, but he had some expertise in the area of wealthy kids who got up to bullshit.

"It's good work," El said. "But none of those kids are Neal Caffrey."

"So few are," he said, more to himself than to her.

Still, there had been prey before Caffrey, and there were plenty of crooks to chase after he caught him, too. As long as he had someone to run after, preferably someone smart, he'd be okay.

As diversions went, his on-again-off-again with the Dutchman wasn't a bad challenge. But when he got the news, when Diana came up to him with the so-serious look and said Neal Caffrey had escaped, oh boy. His blood picked up and his senses sang.

And Neal had left him a puzzle. Right in his jail cell, he left him a tape deck, a wall of scoremarks, a book, a pamphlet -- and on the prison cameras he left him a lot of video to watch.

It was like Christmas.

Okay, maybe that was the wrong way to think. It was obviously a Very Bad Thing that Neal got out and he was going to do his best, darn it all, to catch that _wicked, wicked criminal_ again. Just, you know, he was going to enjoy himself as he did it.

The Bureau loved a man who loved his work.

Later, when they were working together, he liked to razz Neal sometimes about how he was the guy who caught Neal Caffrey twice, but really the second time was kind of a hollow victory. Neal's heart wasn't in it. He just sort of sat around and waited for Peter to show up. Neal wasn't surprised, and the lost look on his face wasn't because of Peter. Peter felt somewhat peripheral to the whole thing.

At least, until Neal reached out and plucked something off Peter's shoulder (the same suit, damn, that was some kind of synchronicity) and Peter's world tipped sideways.

He spent one long night considering Neal's offer, even after he'd said no. El had some words on the subject, and Peter could hear what his colleagues and boss would say without having to ask. But the opportunity to study Neal was sort of irresistible (he'd resisted it for precisely that reason, at first) and if Neal was playing an angle he wanted to see how it would work itself out.

He could always catch him again.

Peter knew Neal. He'd read the reports from the prison -- how Neal had pushed up against every single constraint, methodically, until he knew what the exact bounds of his new home were, and then he had become a model prisoner. He knew a little bit about the way Neal seemed to try to deliberately break a new law with every confidence game and con job. He knew about the boot camp for junior hoodlums when Neal was fifteen, with the same pattern of testing and pushing -- and whoa boy, boot camp could not hold fifteen-year-old Neal Caffrey. 

He knew, too, about the hospital records from when Neal was ten. (Eight.) (Five.)

So he shouldn't have been as surprised as he was to find that he knew precisely what a man like Neal needed: a loose tether tracking anklet, a set of rules laid out before he'd even left the prison walls behind, and a shitty rooming house that would both prove Peter's total control over Neal Caffrey's life and present his new belonging with a challenge.

Neal passed beautifully. (Peter liked June. She was classy and loved dogs.) The suits were a nice touch.

A really nice touch, actually. Peter didn't pretend to know that much about classic fashion or any of that crap but he was willing to admit, if only to himself, that the shirts Neal wore were like art, and Neal wore the hell out of them.

All of which meant it was time for the carrot, now Neal had been given a little bit of stick.

***

Neal never intended to keep the anklet on. The first chance he got, he asked Mozzie to take it off him. Mozzie said he couldn't, and that was frustrating, but it wasn't anything Neal couldn't have dealt with.

He could have cut the strap, after all. He could have gone to the limit of his two miles, cut the strap, and bolted. If he were really twisty he'd have cut the strap and then doubled back, but he thought Peter would probably have known. And there was also Kate to consider; Neal could track her better in comfort, well-fed, and given certain freedoms by Peter, than he could as a fugitive who had to stay out from underfoot.

Still, for that first week he was tempted. He hated being imprisoned even without any bars -- perhaps especially without any bars. The rules Peter put in place chafed at him. Who was Peter Burke to tell him what to do? Why should he bend when the FBI said to bend? As far as he saw there was no reward for obedience. There was just a certain level of comfort that made it hard to decide on running.

He'd tried and rejected half a dozen different means of escape and was working on #7 when Peter walked into the office one morning and set a wine bottle on his desk. _The_ wine bottle.

Neal looked up at him, wondering if he was allowed to touch it.

"It's not evidence," Peter said bluntly.

"No..." Neal watched him warily.

"So, take it, if you want it."

Neal reached for the bottle and touched it once, lovingly, but also with confusion.

"You said it was a promise," Peter said.

"I said it was the message," Neal murmured.

"I want you to have it. Remember," Peter added, leaning on the desk, looming over him, "that it was a message. Keep it, break it, I don't care. It belongs to you, you get it back."

He was about to walk away when Neal realized he had a question. "Why?" he called after him. Peter stopped and half-turned.

"I can make your life hard, or I can make it easy," he said.

"Which one is this?"

"This?" Peter grinned. "This is easy. You do good work for me, you get easy. You fight me, not so easy. I caught you twice," he added, turning away again. "Wouldn't you rather know I'm not on your ass?"

Neal smiled a little at that, because it was true; every escape plan he'd made eventually came up against the fact that as soon as he ran, Peter Burke would be after him, and he didn't have the luxury of years of head start on him this time.

"Thank you," he said, and Peter didn't stop walking, but Neal caught him smiling as he entered his office.

He stopped thinking seriously about escape routes after that, though he didn't realise it at the time. He still considered them, because Neal liked to have a plan, but after Peter gave him the wine bottle back they became...academic. Exercises to keep his mind sharp, with no real faith that he would actually use them.

None of them would have worked, anyway.

***

The problem with Neal was really that if you gave him a rule he obeyed it, but you had to give him the right rules. Otherwise you'd come downstairs one morning and find him sitting with your wife on your couch petting your dog and wearing a turtleneck. Nobody was supposed to look that good in a goddamn turtleneck.

Peter had all kinds of thoughts about Neal in those first days. The Neal Caffrey in his head had been an orderly list of traits, times, dates, informants interviewed, heists he couldn't prove, boxes of puzzles, but all carefully slotted into their place. Court dates. Testimony. The well-behaved case file in his head had been closed for four years, give or take a few times he'd dusted it off to put a birthday card in it. He'd never really thought about what else, other than a birthday, Neal might have been uncovering in his copious spare time.

Peter drove Neal home one night after a breakthrough on the Dutchman case, already late and impatient to get to his own home and to Elizabeth. And Neal, like a smartass, brought up The Anniversary.

"Big plans for the weekend?" he asked, casually.

"Y'know," Peter said, running down his to-do list mentally. "I gotta fix the sink...catch a game..."

"With Elizabeth," Neal said, sounding skeptical.

"Yeah -- yeah, she's into it, how cool is that?" Peter said, because he was endlessly proud that his wife liked baseball. Whenever fellow agents griped about that kind of thing, Peter just smiled. "She likes to watch the Giants."

"Even on your anniversary?" Neal asked.

Peter's first thought was a cavalcade of _oh shit_ , because it was their anniversary and he had come inches from forgetting it. He had plenty of excuses -- Neal among them -- but none of them held water. Elizabeth was busy too, and she'd remember.

His second thought was, _How the hell does Neal Caffrey know when my wedding anniversary is?_

It was that thought, that slightly invaded feeling, that shortened Peter's temper -- that made him quick to point out that knowing everything about Neal was part of the job, and that Neal wasn't in a position to comment on his marriage. Especially Neal.

"You don't get to lecture me on relationships," Peter snapped, when Neal questioned his commitment to Elizabeth. "My wife didn't change her identity and flee the country to get away from me."

Neal looked shocked, and a little bit destroyed. Peter instantly regretted saying it, because he might have put Neal in prison but this guy, sitting in his car, wasn't someone he really would have _wanted_ to put in prison. Neal Caffrey, outside of the neat file-folders in his head, was an actual person, with feelings that Peter could hurt, and it was startling to realise it. He didn't seem like the hardened criminal that Peter knew, intellectually, he had to be.

In that single moment in the car, in the rain, Peter realized that out of everyone in the world, he himself was most qualified to hurt Neal, because he knew the places Neal was vulnerable. The places Neal was breakable.

"That was harsh," he said, fumbling for -- an excuse, an apology that wouldn't undermine his authority. "I didn't mean that."

"Yeah you did," Neal said, and continued to shut him down for the rest of the drive home. Not sullenly, especially, and not angrily. He just nursed his injury and shut Peter down.

Peter wasn't a sadist. He didn't want to break Neal, not like that. Train him, yes. Teach him when to sit-and-stay, so that he could make use of Neal's mind without having to put up with Neal's...antics. But he had no interest in shattering Neal's essential, clever, mischievous self, the man who'd left Peter puzzles and cracked wise even while he was being handcuffed.

He found that, already, he liked Neal. Maybe he always had. He just wasn't sure he could avoid hurting him, because for Peter it would be so easy. There were moments, then and later, when Peter wanted to send Neal back to prison purely so that he didn't have to work so damn hard.

Elizabeth, as usual, was much more straightforward.

"He's prettier than his pictures," she mused, snuggling down in the blankets as Peter put out the light and climbed into bed. She'd met him, now; he wondered what she must have thought to open their front door and come face to face with the man her husband had hunted for years. "He's one of those people, you know, who look better when they're in motion."

"I just wish I could get him to sit still," he replied. He pulled her against him, arm around her waist, and she pressed her cold feet to his shins. "Jesus Christ, woman."

"One or the other," she replied, laughing. "Have you tried telling him?"

"Telling him your feet are -- so cold?" he groaned.

"Telling him to sit still," she replied.

"What is he, five?" he asked. Though, in some ways, Neal did need to be told things.

He tried it in the meeting room the next day. Damned if it didn't work.

"Will you stop pacing?" he snapped at Neal, who was trying to work out the layering process for the multicolor printing job on the Dutchman's Spanish Bond forgeries. "Sit down."

Neal sat immediately, hands on the table, fingers tapping, lips twitching. Peter stretched out a hand and rested it on Neal's arm. "Stop tapping."

It stopped like someone had muted the room. Neal was suddenly still. Not looking at Peter, not at all tense or frightened. Languid, even, just sitting very still. Peter was impressed with both of them, and not a little bit concerned. Either he had startled the other man into obedience or Neal was playing him, and it was almost impossible to tell which.

Although, perhaps it was easy enough to test it.

"Now, you work that out quietly. I'm going to go over the files," he said, and opened the latest report folder. He was nearly finished reading Diana's writeup when Neal snorted.

"Okay, got it figured out," he said. Peter looked up at him over the edge of the folder. "What? There's only so many ways to layer stuff."

Smartass.

Still, Neal was useful. Especially after the Dutchman case, when Diana was reassigned with full agent status, no longer a probie, and shipped off to DC to see what they could teach her. Her replacement, Cruz, was a hell of an agent, but Peter had trained a lot of probies and there was always some time before the dust settled and everyone got on with life. Neal was a good focal point, not just for Cruz (who'd studied him) and Jones (who liked the guy) but for Peter, who found Neal's limit-testing invigorating once he got past being annoyed by it.

After they recovered an antique Book of Hours for Barelli's church, Neal perhaps rightfully demanded a reward. He'd been a good boy, his attitude said, and he wanted a prize for not running when the strap came off and for carrying the bulk of the case. Peter couldn't deny that while they'd done the _thinking_ together, he had mostly been the muscle on this one, and Neal had handled a lot of the active investigation.

Still, there was no point in making it easy on him, or pretending Neal was going to get a present after every case. His present was his freedom, after all.

"Do you think you really deserve a favor?" he asked, leaning back in his chair. Neal, across the desk, tilted his head. "I don't know exactly how you stole the book -- "

"Borrowed," Neal corrected. "Borrowed it. He got it back."

" -- but I have a clue, and I'm not pleased," Peter finished.

"Peter, I'm hurt. The dog was dying!" Neal said, a little sardonic drawl creeping into his voice. "A _rescue dog_ from _Iraq_."

Peter couldn't deny this. The dog was a damn sad story. And Neal's puppy eyes, huge in his face, weren't helping.

"What is it you want?" he asked, wary. Neal brightened, and he took an advertising postcard out of his pocket, laying it on the table. Peter picked it up, noting that it had June's name and address on it before he turned it over.

" _Gustave Caillebotte: Impressionist Paintings from Paris to the Sea_ ," he read aloud. He raised an eyebrow at Neal. "And...?"

"It's at the Brooklyn Museum," Neal said.

"Which is out of your radius," Peter said, nodding. "Aha. Which one are you gonna steal?"

Neal grinned. "I'll buy a postcard. Promise I'll behave, Peter. I just want a couple of hours outside the radius to say hi to Gustave."

"Old friends, are you?" Peter asked, just to draw out the suspense a little. Neal didn't react, precisely, but there was a certain mulish expression in his eyes. Peter made a note to have Jones go over the authentication paperwork for the Caillebottes at the museum. "Yeah, fine. I'm coming with you, though."

" _Peter_ \-- "

"Non-negotiable. I'd like to trust you, Neal, I really would, but you're still trying bullshit on me," Peter told him. Neal scowled. "Besides, El's been wanting to see it for a couple of weeks."

Neal's scowl melted away, slowly. Peter could see the reasoning going on in his head: Peter liked art but he had no patience for the Impressionists, which Neal had probably deduced. If Elizabeth wanted to see the exhibit, then Peter wouldn't try to hurry either one of them through it, and Elizabeth would make Peter let him linger as long as he liked among the paintings.

It was insurance for Neal, of course, but it would also make El happy, which was important to Peter. Everyone won.

Well, except Peter, who had to spend an afternoon being bored by Impressionists, but he'd been bored by worse in his time.

Two days later, when El had a free afternoon and the FBI's workload looked momentarily clear, Peter made the call that he was taking Caffrey out of his radius and drove him across the Manhattan bridge. Neal spent most of the time staring out the window to their right, at the imposing rise of the Brooklyn bridge, but once they were in Brooklyn he grew restless, tapping his fingers on his thighs, head craning to see down side streets, eyes flicking over everything. At first he looked like he'd never seen Brooklyn before; tourists did the same thing. Then, slowly, Peter realized that he wasn't taking in the scenery -- he was memorising landmarks, studying the route.

"Straight shot down Flatbush," Peter said casually. Neal glanced at him. "El's meeting us there."

"You gonna take Plaza Street?" Neal asked skeptically. Peter fought down a smile.

"Sterling to Washington. It'll take a little longer but you don't get stuck on the loop that way," he told him.

El was waiting for them on the steps of the museum when they arrived, eating a hot dog she'd bought from a nearby food cart. Peter wiped a smudge of mustard off her cheek and kissed her hello.

"So, Neal," she said, finishing her lunch as they turned to go inside. "Excited about Gustave?"

"Yeah," Neal agreed, at ease now that they were here, strolling along with his hands in his pockets, long stride casual and graceful. He had a way of blending in anywhere that sometimes made Peter nervous -- because if he looked equally as if he belonged in a museum, or a church, or a bar, then how much did he really belong to the FBI? How much was just...Neal being Neal? Still too early to tell.

Peter trailed behind them to the exhibition gallery, a series of stark white-walled rooms with bare floors, the paintings hung in simple rows with their little placards nearby. El had her arm looped through Neal's as they examined one of them, but soon she drifted away; Neal stayed, drinking in the painting, and Peter stayed, watching Neal. El's heels clacked on the floor nearby, but otherwise there weren't many people in the gallery.

He wondered what Neal saw when he looked at something like that. Not just a commodity, though he was sure Neal was estimating the selling price of every painting here. Neal also knew how to forge paintings like this, which meant he knew about technique. What was he learning from Gustave Caillebotte?

Neal shuffled aside as someone else came up to view the painting, a museum map in his hand. They exchanged a few words; Peter, under the guise of examining the painting next to them, edged closer.

"...foreshortening," Neal was saying, as he floated his hand over the painting, apparently and enthusiastically explaining art to a tourist. "See how the rower almost comes out of the painting at you. It's hard to do. You can see him obscuring the faces, too, focusing on the shape of the bodies in contrast to the water around them. It's much more delicate than it looks."

"Do you work for the museum?" the man asked, following where Neal's hand led, close as it could be without drawing the attention of the guard at the door.

"I'm the curator," Neal said, giving the man a grin. Peter closed his eyes. _Neal..._ "Jack Felton. You enjoying your visit? Come on, I'll show you my favorite," he added, and led the man away.

He could have stopped them, but Peter knew that there was no point; he'd already learned to tolerate Neal's inability _not_ to be a criminal, even while working for the FBI. Instead he left Neal to fall or fly on his own merits, and found El studying a landscape in the corner.

"Neal's made a friend," she said.

"He has that habit," Peter sighed. "Enjoying yourself?"

"Yes, I am," she said, rubbing his arm and grinning. "Suffer a little longer."

"I'm not -- " he started, then gave up at her look. "I love you," he said instead.

"I know," she replied. "Why don't you go look at the mummies or something?"

"I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on Caffrey," he said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Neal clap the tourist on the shoulder and wander away, into the next room. Peter followed.

Here it was the same, white walls and blond wood floor, but with a large white partition in the centre of the room. That was where Neal stood, gazing at a painting that the placard said was called _The Floor Scrapers._

"This is my actual favorite," Neal breathed, as Peter approached. It was, Peter had to admit, striking -- two men on a dark wooden floor, amidst curls of discarded wood, one sharpening a knife while the other worked. "Look at the reflection of the windows in the wood."

"You told that man you were the curator of the exhibit," Peter said.

"No, I told him I was the curator of the museum," Neal corrected.

"Why do you do things like that?" Peter asked, frustrated. "Are you just incapable of not conning people?"

Neal turned to him and shrugged. "Why not?"

"Because you don't have to. Because most people don't walk through life pretending to be people they aren't."

"Boring," Neal said absently.

"I don't get you."

"Look, this is my reward for doing a good job. Let me have some fun," Neal said. "I enjoy myself, he's got a story to tell the folks back in Omaha, everybody walks away happy. God, it's gorgeous," he added, eyes following the line of the painting's wooden floor as it slanted from light to dark.

Peter digested this. In a way, it made sense, he supposed. Every piece of history he had on Neal Caffrey said that when he was in a corner, he charmed or lied his way out, and he'd been in a lot of corners even before he consciously took up crime. Maybe for Neal, lying was an outlet. They were almost sublime: forged paintings, elaborate setups, fascinating false identities. Some people gardened, some collected action figures, Neal Caffrey...improved on reality. Maybe because he had to.

He wondered, idly, what lies Neal told himself about Kate, and how much he believed them.

"What's so special about this painting?" Peter asked, letting the subject drop.

"Everything," Neal said.

"If you were going to steal it, how would you do it?" Peter pressed. Neal gave him a scornful glance.

"From here? Hardly worth my time," he said. "Private collections are hard, selling a forgery is a challenge. Stealing from a museum? Piece of cake. You know how the Mona Lisa was stolen?"

"Vincenzo Peruggia hid in a broom closet until the museum closed, took it off the wall, and walked out with it the next morning through a side door," Peter said.

"Not exactly Ocean's Eleven, was he?" Neal asked. "Museums aren't very secure. They can't afford all the stuff you see in movies. Broom closet pretty much does the trick. People came in droves to see the wall where it used to hang," he added, eyes still on the painting. "It's the reason it's famous. Everyone wanted to see where the Mona Lisa wasn't."

Peter nodded, and made his decision.

"I'm gonna go look at the mummies," he said. Neal gave him a sidelong glance, but didn't reply. "If you disappear I'm searching all the broom closets."

That night they ate dinner at a weird little place near the museum that El was scouting as a possible caterer for her company. Neal was quiet, subdued even, but it didn't seem to be unhappiness or preoccupation. If anything, he looked...calm. It didn't last longer than the evening (by the next morning he was a perpetual-motion machine again) but it gave Peter food for thought.

Then came the Mitchell case with the stolen gold, where Neal almost got shot again, and after that came the Carruthers Incident, where Neal _did_ get shot.

That was before the Haustenberg theft -- Peter didn't usually keep such careful track of when he opened one case and closed another, but he remembered because the morning they got the call about the Haustenberg portrait was the first morning Neal was supposed to be back at work. And, admittedly, because of what happened during the Haustenberg case.

He wondered if Neal thought about the Carruthers Incident. Probably not. Most people didn't like to remember getting shot.

***

Neal thought about Carruthers a lot.

It wasn't that he enjoyed the memory of being shot, even if Carruthers had only winged him. He didn't especially like thinking about how he fell down and bashed himself in the head, either. Or the bumpy ride down the fire escape, arm tucked over Peter's shoulder, on the way to the alley and, eventually, the ambulance that pulled up. It was just that sometimes his mind wandered. More often than not it wandered to Carruthers, and to what happened after.

Of the fragments of memory that surfaced when he was in the hospital, the most vivid wasn't the sense of the world slipping out from under his feet, or the sound of Peter's cursing in the background. It was after he'd been passed over to the EMTs, who had a lot of people to look after and who had left him alone with a butterfly bandage on his arm and an ice pack wrapped in gauze pressed to the gash in his head. Scalp wounds tended to gush. Being left there, sitting on the bumper of the ambulance to see to his own aches and pains, that wasn't pleasant and not just because he was in pain. Peter was going to need him to help find the rag paper, and nobody else would be able to explain the whole laser printer thing, and what if they forgot to bag and tag the tea? Maybe Peter wouldn't know the tea was important.

He was about to get up and go find everyone when Peter was suddenly there again, covered in streaks of black grease, suit totally ruined (at least it wasn't Neal's favorite, the one Peter had worn both times he'd caught him) and a stippling of plaster dust across his face.

"Hey, you look like crap," Neal mumbled, as Peter sat down next to him.

"Seen a mirror lately?" Peter asked. "How you holding up?"

"I'll be fine. You get Carruthers?"

Peter gave him an odd look. "Don't worry about Carruthers. I gotta get back there soon, just making sure you were okay."

"Did you find -- " Neal began.

"Found it," Peter said smugly.

"What about the laser -- "

"It's taken care of."

"And the boxes of -- "

"Neal," Peter said, and Neal fell silent. You could only push Peter so far. "I'm taking care of it. Trust me." 

"The tea's important," Neal said reproachfully.

"I know the tea's important."

"I could go -- "

"Stay. There," Peter told him. Neal tried his best kicked-puppy impression, but that rarely worked on Peter and lost something when there was blood still dribbling down Neal's ear. "Listen to me. You're going to stay here and I'm going to send the EMTs over, and they're going to take you to the hospital where you will let a doctor check you out. I'll come and get you."

"But you -- "

"Don't need you here right now," Peter said. "Relax, Caffrey. All you need to think about right now is sitting here and not bleeding on everything. I'm taking care of this. You don't have to worry about it. This is my job, okay?"

And suddenly Neal got it. Something clicked over in his head. He didn't have to worry, because Peter was going to do that. Peter would make sure the EMTs didn't forget him, and then Peter would stay here and clean everything up. Neal wasn't going to be blamed if something didn't get done. And everything would get done, because Peter always made sure everything got done.

The sheer relief of not having to think about anything or anyone made Neal's shoulders drop and that hurt like hell where his bandage pulled and that made him fumble the cold pack, but Peter caught it and handed it back to him. Neal took it with a mumbled thank you and pressed it to his head again, and Peter patted his knee and walked off.

Two minutes later the EMTs came back and packed Neal off to the hospital, and he passed out for a little while in the ambulance, just because he could. He didn't have to worry. Peter said so.

At the hospital they rebandaged his arm and gave him a neurological exam. They joked with him about stitching up his scalp without getting rid of all his gorgeous hair, and he could have responded, but he didn't. He didn't have to charm these people. All he had to do was lie still and wait for Peter to come get him. Peter would come.

Peter didn't actually come, but Neal's faith was justified; Elizabeth arrived just as they were loading him up with insurance paperwork and prescriptions for pain medication. She took all the paperwork and shoved it in her bag and checked him out, and held his hand as she led him to the car.

"We'll pick up the prescription and take you home," she said. By then the first dose of medication they'd given him at the hospital had kicked in, so he sat quietly while she picked up his pills and paid for them.

"Peter called me," she said, navigating the city streets. He tracked automatically the turns she took; she was taking him to June's house. "He said you were a hero. A stupid, stupid hero. He didn't give me any details. You want to talk about it?"

"I could talk," he said.

"But do you want to?" she asked. He looked at her. "You don't have to."

"No," he said. "Did Peter say if they got everything?"

"He said to tell you he's taking care of it and that yes, he tagged and bagged everything."

"That's good," Neal replied. He closed his eyes so that he wouldn't have to memorise the route.

Peter pulled up in an FBI van as they were getting out of the car, tossed the keys to a frankly terrified-looking Jones, and waved the van off.

"Cruz is doing mop-up," he announced, as they walked up the stairs and inside. June and Cindy were in the sitting room; Peter leaned across Neal and murmured, "Can you explain it to her?" to Elizabeth, who smiled and kissed Peter, and then kissed Neal on the cheek, and went to answer June's questions. Peter followed Neal up the stairs.

"What happened to Carruthers?" Neal asked, shedding his poor ruined shirt. One arm was totally missing, but he didn't think Byron would mind; from what June had told him about her late husband, he'd worn Devore suits through worse.

"Carruthers is dead," Peter said, and Neal looked up so sharply that he staggered. "Easy there," Peter said, grabbing him and helping him to the bed.

"How'd that happen?" Neal asked, pulling up one leg and slowly undoing the laces on his shoe.

"You don't remember?"

"I'm a little fuzzy," Neal admitted.

"I shot him," Peter said briefly. "I'm on administrative leave for a week. It's mandatory after a fatal shooting."

"You get in trouble?"

"Nah. It's a paperwork thing."

"Why'd you shoot him?" Neal asked, dropping the shoe and pulling his other leg up.

"Well, he was _shooting at us_ ," Peter replied. He put his hands on his hips, studying Neal. "You seriously don't remember me shooting him? You were there."

Neal frowned, then grinned. "You shot him for me?"

"I shot him because he was resisting arrest."

"You shot him for me," Neal teased. "He kicked your toy so you shot him."

"One, you are not my toy, you're my responsibility and you're not a barrel of laughs to look after," Peter retorted. "Two, he didn't kick you, all I knew was that he shot at you and you were bleeding from your head."

"I fell down," Neal said gravely.

"Heat of the moment," Peter told him, and turned to study Neal's bookcase, eyes flitting over the titles -- some of them Neal's, some Byron's, some June's. Neal dropped his other shoe and leaned back on the pillows while Peter continued. "What'd they say at the hospital?"

Neal shrugged. His arm twinged, but it felt sort of far away. "They said I should keep the wounds clean, rest for a few days, and make my boss bring me cookies. Did you bring cookies?"

Peter raised an eyebrow, still not looking at him. "Are you three?"

"No, sir," Neal answered. "Hey -- thanks for sending Elizabeth, though. She has all my paperwork."

"Well, a hospital's no place to be alone," Peter said. It was an innocent enough phrase in itself, a platitude almost, but the way he said it made Neal narrow his eyes.

"You really do know everything about me," he observed. Peter glanced at him, then back at the books.

"I know when you were ten your leg was broken," Peter said, and Neal could hear what he carefully avoided saying: neither _you broke your leg_ , which would have been pretty common for an active ten-year-old boy, nor _your father broke your leg_ , which was the truth. "Your parents dropped you off at the emergency room and left you alone there for about eight hours. I know social services was called, but you went back to your parents the next day."

Neal kept silent, uncertain how to respond. Peter didn't look like he was going to push it, but he wouldn't be the first.

"Anyway, I'll bring you the case report tomorrow," Peter said finally. "One of our legal guys'll probably want to take a statement about Carruthers. Get some rest."

"I expect cookies!" Neal called after him as he left. He heard Peter's snort of laughter before the door closed.

Elizabeth was explaining things to June, Cruz was mopping up, Carruthers was dead, and Peter would be back tomorrow so Neal could check the paperwork himself.

When Neal was on the run, or working a heist that had gone wrong, sometimes he'd find himself holed up or trapped with nothing to do for ten or twelve hours. He'd trained himself to sleep, so at least when he did have to think fast he'd be ready for it. He found himself in the same predicament now: drugged, mostly immobile, and with nothing to do until Peter came back. He could call up Moz, but what was he going to say? "Got shot, bored now, come watch me sleep"? No.

So he slept. And for the first time in months, Kate wasn't the last thought that crossed his mind before he drifted off.

***

When he woke the next morning, the sun was already up. His head ached and he was stiff -- well, everywhere. This was why he'd mostly stuck to forgery: you rarely found yourself falling down fire escapes.

He groaned his way out of bed and hobbled to the washroom, where the painkillers were. He swallowed two with a handful of water, then staggered back out towards the balcony doors. Just before he reached the long dining table that was currently covered in books and Byron's chess set, he paused. Something was missing. No, something was there that shouldn't be. He leaned over cautiously to get a better look.

It was a cookie.

Not just a cookie; one of those fancy cookies you got in high-end tourist bakeries downtown, where they were shaped and decorated like the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State Building or whatever. A big sugar cookie with white frosting on it. On top of the white frosting, in more frosting, was a pair of handcuffs.

Neal snorted, but he also felt a certain shiver of -- anticipation? Delight? -- hard to tell. He knew what it was supposed to mean: just Peter making a lame joke. But those were Peter's handcuffs on that cookie just as it was Peter's tracking monitor on his ankle. He was Peter's responsibility, and it pleased Peter to indulge his childishness. He thought about that for a minute, what it could mean and did mean, but he didn't reach any conclusions. He picked up the cookie and walked out into the sunlight to find June and Peter sitting at the breakfast table, drinking coffee. Peter was in the usual off-the-clock uniform, polo shirt and khakis.

"He rises," Peter announced, setting down his cup. "How's the head?"

"Ask me again in ten minutes," Neal said. June just smiled at him and poured the coffee. "Thank you."

"You're welcome, Neal," June replied, as Neal unwrapped the cellophane around the cookie. "I see you found Peter's present."

"El sent that," Peter protested. Neal bit into it and grinned. "She coddles him," he said to June.

"I'm sure 'she' does," June replied. Peter opened his mouth to answer and then apparently thought better of it; he turned to Neal instead.

"Brought the casefile for you, with the preliminary report," he said, tapping a manila folder sitting on the table. "Your forms are in there too."

"Do consultants have to do paperwork?" Neal groaned around a mouthful of cookie.

"They do if they don't want to end up back in prison," Peter said. Neal narrowed his eyes and tried again.

"Can I fill it out in Latin?" Neal asked. "It's a really efficient language. Most legal terminology is in Latin anyway -- "

"Neal." Peter's voice was like a wall. A wall hitting him. But a nice, reliable wall. Maybe the drugs were kicking in.

"Hm," June said. "Adversus solem ne loquitor."

Both he and Peter looked at her, startled. She shrugged and smiled. "Don't argue with the boss. Byron was always fond of that one."

"I'll print that on a t-shirt," Peter said.

"You'll have to wear it. Otherwise I'll never see it," Neal pointed out.

"June, please, do something with him," Peter begged, but he was laughing a little as he said it. "I gotta go."

"You have the week off," Neal reminded him.

"Yeah, and if you think I'm not taking advantage of that fact you're nuts. Text me when you're done with your statement this afternoon," Peter added, standing to leave. 

"What am I supposed to do? Bed rest, seriously?" Neal asked.

"Write your report. Play Parcheesi. Learn to knit. I don't care, just keep out of trouble," Peter said. "June, thanks for the coffee."

He touched Neal's shoulder lightly as he left. Neal leaned back and stretched, catlike, and then flinched when the muscles in his arm twitched in protest.

"He'd look so nice in a tailored suit," June observed. She regarded Neal for a moment. "Screw Parcheesi. Five card stud?"

"I love you, June," Neal said.

She won all his matchsticks off him in two hours.

The fed from Legal showed up after that and took his statement, which was soul-harrowing; Neal had no idea the amount of detail he would be expected to provide, and considering his memory was sketchy at best he got a lot of thin-lipped grimaces and pained sighs.

When it was over, he found he was exhausted. Apparently getting shot really did a number on the body. He slept for a while, got up, ate some fruit that June had probably asked a maid to leave for him, and then for lack of anything better to do he went back to sleep.

He woke to find Moz rifling through his sock drawer.

"Hey man," Moz said, as Neal sat up and shook his head to dispel the last few clouds of sleep. "Where are you stashing your pills?"

"On the sink," Neal answered, annoyed.

"A bold decision," Moz replied.

"Keep your hands off the happy pills, I need those," Neal called, as Moz made for the bathroom.

"Probably adulterated with toxic substances," Moz called. "Do you know the contamination rate for pharmacy-dispensed pills?"

"I'm sure they're fine," Neal sighed.

You're going to get gangrene," Mozzie announced, returning with the pill bottle. Neal took it from him and dumped one into his hand, dry-swallowing. He put the bottle in the pocket of his pyjamas just in case Moz hadn't got the message; he could see him calculating their street value. "Or flesh-eating bacteria. Or both."

"I'm not going to get gangrene."

"I can get you antibiotics on the cheap. Good stuff too, none of this generic crap," Moz offered.

"I'm covered by the federal government," Neal informed him, and slid out of bed. He took down a shirt from the closet and pulled it on, buttoning it with fingers that felt about twice as thick as they were. Byron probably would have shuddered to see his tailored Sy Devore worn over a pair of six dollar box-store pyjama bottoms.

Sometimes Neal felt like he was sharing the room with Byron's ghost.

"Well, clearly I'm not needed here," Moz said loftily, and made as if to leave.

"Mozzie, come on," Neal tried. Moz stopped, chin up, shoulders straight, but he didn't turn around. "What'd I do?"

"What did you do? Nothing," Moz said. "Oh, wait, no, what you did was get shot and not tell me."

"I was gonna tell you," Neal said. "I was kinda busy being in pain at the time."

"You couldn't text? I had to hear it from June."

Neal rolled his eyes. "I promise next time I get shot I'll text. Happy now?"

"It'll do," Mozzie said. He fidgeted with his coat. Neal saw the corner of a DVD case peeking out of the pocket.

"What'd'ja bring me?" he asked. Moz scowled. "Come on, give it up, what is it? If you say _Smokey and the Bandit_..."

"I'm not sure you deserve _The Thomas Crown Affair_ ," Moz told him.

Neal caught his breath. "The original?"

"Would I inflict the remake on you?"

"I'll make snacks," Neal said immediately, and hustled off to the kitchen to rummage for popcorn while Moz slid the DVD into the player.

"So, what's the suit think of your heroics?" Moz asked.

"You know..." Neal said, tearing into the wrapper around a popcorn bag and tossing it in the microwave. It was a fancy microwave with a button just for popcorn. The one he and Kate had bought from a thrift store when they were starting out had been so ancient it'd had a _dial_. "Whatever, he doesn't -- "

Kate.

He hadn't thought about Kate since...since before the shooting.

"He doesn't what? Care for the rights of the common citizen? Mind using dodgy search warrants?" Moz prompted.

Neal fumbled a little, staring at the countdown on the microwave. 2:40, 2:39, 2:38...

"It's just another day to him," Neal said finally.

"That is because all feds are sociopaths," Moz told him. "Is that butter flavor?"

"Is there any other kind?" Neal asked, forcing a grin.

That night, he did think about Kate as he lay in bed (completely awake, thanks to his afternoon naps). He thought about how Kate would have reacted, had she known; whether she did know. There'd been a small piece in the paper, he'd seen it on a news website that afternoon, but it hadn't listed him by name. Peter kept Neal out of the newspapers, for plenty of good reasons, and it wasn't like Neal cared. He didn't want to be famous for being a detective. He wanted to be famous for -- well, things one couldn't prove in court.

It occurred to him, for the first time, that Peter wasn't just protecting his office's reputation when he did that. Maybe he was protecting Neal, too. The consultancy was an open secret, but noising it around could only land Neal in more trouble than he was already.

Kate. He was thinking about Kate. If he'd come home to Kate with scalp lacerations...well, she'd have got those big wide disappointed eyes, and scolded him for being reckless, and that would have just led to him doing something even more dangerous to prove he could. Okay, maybe a little bit to impress her, too. But she _wouldn't_ be impressed, and he'd just keep doing it until finally they'd have it out in one big fight and fall into bed and have crazy angry sex until everything was worked out.

Kate would have been angry, and asked him why he'd do something stupid like that. Anger for his safety, sure, but you really couldn't compare it all anyway since if he had Kate he wouldn't be running around getting shot at with Peter. But Kate wasn't like Peter, who'd shot Carruthers and then briskly gone about cleaning up so Neal didn't have to. Or Elizabeth, who had held his hand when they left the emergency room.

He was suddenly lonely. Lonely for Kate in the bed next to him -- Kate who had kept him reined in, who had rightfully scolded him when things got too dangerous but always went along with his next stupid (or brilliant) plan. Lonely too for some reassurance that, tonight at any rate, he didn't have to think. And very, very confused.

The phone buzzed.

Neal stared at it, fumbled for it, and saw a text message notification. Three words from Peter's personal cell, not the Bureau-issue one. _Go to bed._

He grinned and texted back. _You're not boss of me._

_Actually I am & El's boss of me & she says go to bed. _

Neal hesitated. Then, slowly, he tapped out a message and hit send. _How'd you know?_

_You figure it out._

Man, trust Peter to remember that -- four years ago, he'd asked Peter how he'd caught him, and that's what Peter had said. You figure it out.

He closed the phone and set it back on the bedside table, pulling a pillow down a little further under his head. He had his orders. The room, busy all day with June and the fed from Legal and Moz and _The Thomas Crown Affair_ and fancy microwaves, was finally quiet. Neal slept.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter, predictably, didn't stay away for a week. He didn't even stay away for two days. Around mid-morning the following day, when Neal was restlessly sifting through Byron's books looking for something to read, he heard the door close below and Peter's voice, greeting June. He counted Peter's steps up the stairs and yelled "COME IN" about half a second, as he judged, before Peter would have knocked on the door. There was a creak as Peter caught his weight on his toes, thwarted from leaning forward to knock, and then the door opened.

"Neat trick," Peter remarked. "Squeaky board?"

"Counted the steps," Neal answered. "I thought you'd be home, enjoying the break."

"El bounced me," Peter replied.

"Lover's quarrel?"

Peter's lips quirked. "She said I was in the way."

"Well, she doesn't take the day off and come sit in your office and distract _you_ ," Neal pointed out.

"No, that's your job."

Neal clutched his chest dramatically. Peter waved him off and sat down, fingers drifting over the chess pieces on the board. Getting the feel of them, Neal noticed; not an idle gesture, but a measuring one.

"You're bored," Peter said. It wasn't a question or a reproach, just a statement of fact. Like Peter was telling him.

"Ennnh..." Neal wobbled a hand, then pointed at his head with it. "Still fuzzy. I'm a brain guy. The two don't mix well."

"So let's clear the fuzz," Peter said. "Want to take a drive?"

Peter made a call while Neal was locating his shoes -- a more difficult task than it should be -- and Neal heard him telling someone on the other end that he was taking Caffrey out of his radius, so they didn't need to call anyone when the alarm went. Neal thought they were probably just going to Peter and Elizabeth's place, maybe for lunch or something, but instead Peter took the Lincoln Tunnel, got on the highway, and stayed on it. For a long time.

"Where are we going?" Neal asked, as the suburbs scrolled past them.

"Trust me," Peter said.

Peter had called off his watchdogs, and neither of them were on the clock. If it were anyone else, he'd be worried he was being taken somewhere to be whacked and dumped in a river, but he was pretty sure Peter had a moral code against that kind of thing. There was no angle here to work, just him and Peter and the car, leaving the suburbs now too, out into the hills where the leaves were turning.

Neal found he had his face nearly pressed to the window, like a kid, staring hungrily at the trees. He didn't even like camping. He liked cities. But before -- in another life, without the prison yard and the tracking anklet -- he'd been able to come and go as he pleased. This kind of place had been an option before, and wasn't now.

Except here he was. And there was _so much sky_. Even more than he could see from June's terrace.

In the faint reflection of the window glass, he caught Peter glancing at him occasionally with that half-smile he did so well.

They were way the hell out in nowhere, off the highway and on a narrow two-lane road, when Peter pulled the car over and put it in park. Neal realized he didn't actually know where they were -- he hadn't been reading the signs, and there were no landmarks of any kind. The only unique thing about the landscape was a large house nearby, tucked up between two groves of trees.

"Well, this is...idyllic," he said, to hide the rising panic in his chest.

"Up there," Peter said, pointing to the house. "I recovered two sculptures for the guy who owns that place, back when he lived in the city. He's a collector."

"Wanna knock it over?" Neal asked, turning to grin at him. Peter shook his head.

"He asked me to find him a security consultant," he said. "I figure it's too far out in the boondocks for you to bother coming back..."

"You're all heart," Neal told him.

"So, unfuzz your brain," Peter said. "If you were going after it, how would you get in?"

Neal opened the car door and stepped out into knee-high grass, leaning against the car. He heard Peter climb out too, and a moment later Peter leaned next to him, watching him.

"There's nothing around here," Neal said finally, as the gears began clicking. "No fence, lots of cover. Easiest way is a smash and grab. Four or five guys go in through the front, take the owner hostage, force him to deactivate whatever alarms he's got. Cake walk."

"But?" Peter prompted.

"But..." Neal shrugged. "It lacks style. I don't like guns. And too much can go too wrong. Point is, I wouldn't try it, but someone could. If he's serious about protecting this place, he needs to clear some of the cover around the house. A dog wouldn't hurt. Alarms on the grounds -- pressure activated, silent, gives anyone inside the house time to lock down. Has he got a safe room?"

Peter grinned. "Come up to the house, you can see for yourself."

***

Peter would say this for Neal: he was thorough. He took the measure of everyone in the house as soon as he met them -- the butler who answered the door, Mr. and Mrs. Kreg who owned the house, their daughter Lisa, their own security guy Mark. Mark wasn't happy that some freelancer was on his turf, pointing out his flaws, but he grudgingly took notes and agreed that Neal was effective, if unpleasant.

Neal was actually pretty pleasant, for him. He went over every inch of the gallery room where the Kregs displayed their sculpture collection, admiring a few as he worked, testing every possible method of entry or exit. Every once in a while he glanced at Peter, as if to reassure himself he wasn't alone. He worked slowly, but he didn't miss anything, and it wasn't until he stopped for a minute and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead that Peter stepped in.

"That's pretty comprehensive, I think you'd agree," he told Mrs. Kreg. "We need to be getting back to the city."

"It's so reassuring to have someone discreet looking over everything," she told Peter, as he subtly helped Neal to his feet from the crouch where he'd been examining some floor work. "We do appreciate it, Agent Burke."

"It's our pleasure. Would you mind getting Mr. Caffrey a glass of water?" he asked. Neal looked like he was standing under his own power, but a lot of his weight was resting on the shoulder he leaned against Peter's.

"Sorry, I'm not..." Neal began, once the others were gone from the room. "I feel...weird."

"We'll get you home," Peter told him, arm around his waist, moving him slowly towards the large steel door that led to the rest of the house. "How's the head?"

"Lookin' forward to that glass of water," Neal said, just as Mrs. Kreg returned with the glass. He straightened a little, leaning away from Peter, and drank a few sips before reaching into his pocket to shake out one of the painkillers from its little bottle and wash it down with the rest.

"We'll see you out," Mrs. Kreg said, and Peter walked a little behind Neal to make sure he was steady on his feet as they left.

Neal eased himself into the passenger's seat of Peter's car, grunting a little with relief as he leaned back against the upholstery. "For someone who was supposed to stay out of the field, I'm in a field," he said, when Peter slammed the driver's side door shut.

"You love it," Peter told him, and Neal slitted one eye open to glare blearily at him.

"Yeah, I do," he said, then closed his eye again and slouched down a little. Peter reached out and ruffled his hair; Neal didn't even react.

"You did good," he said, as they pulled away from the house.

"Yeah?" Neal asked, slumping down further.

"Yeah. Get some rest, I'll get us home."

Neal nodded. Peter wasn't sure if it was agreement or exhaustion. He hadn't wanted to push him, but there'd been a point to it. Several points to it. Neal could probably wrap his head around most of them -- that he could be paid honestly for his skills, that his limits were not what he thought they were. And when he did find his limits, Peter would be there.

For whatever reason, Neal wanted his approval. Maybe Neal wanted everyone's approval, but not to the degree he wanted Peter's. Still, Neal needed to learn that there was a time and a place to let Peter do his job, because Neal Caffrey of all people should never have run onto that fire escape and given Carruthers a chance to hurt him. Neal had no gun and no training, except what he caught on the fly from the other agents. He'd been shot at on their last three cases. The law of averages wasn't on his side.

He slept deeply while Peter drove, but he woke up when they left the tunnel. He was sitting up, looking reasonably alert, by the time they reached June's house.

"You okay to get up there on your own?" Peter asked. Neal climbed out of the car and then leaned in through the doorway.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, almost convincingly.

"Kay. Drink some water, I'll see you tomorrow," Peter told him, but he waited until Neal was inside before he pulled away.

***

The next morning, when he arrived, Neal was asleep again. He peered through the window on his way to the table where June was doing a crossword, and saw Neal draped on the bed. His shoulder was cocked on top of a pillow to keep it from shifting, and there was a book splayed open, face-down, on his chest.

"Good morning, Peter," June called, pouring out a cup of coffee. "Back for another field trip?"

"Morning," he said, settling himself into one of the patio chairs. "Thank you. Nope, I think that was enough excitement for him for a few days."

"Hmm," she said, and gave him a grin. "So what's the puzzle for today?"

Peter lifted an eyebrow at her.

"Don't try to fool me," she said. "Whatever you two did yesterday, at least he slept well afterwards."

"He didn't tell you?" Peter asked, intrigued.

"Why should he? He said it was confidential work," she replied. "Byron used to tell me something like that when he was getting into mischief. He didn't like me getting involved. Though I don't think your mischief is the kind my husband got up to, unless I've grossly misjudged you, Peter."

"No," Peter said, a little discomfited by how easily June accepted her husband's criminal activity. It had been vast and mostly unpunished; he'd pulled the file at the FBI, and it was thick. On the other hand, as far as he could tell, Byron had been like Neal in temperament as well as taste, veering away from violence, never ripping off the little guy.

Sometimes, it felt like Neal had blurred some very important lines in Peter's life.

June sipped her coffee and laid her newspaper down.

"I need to ask you something," she said, folding her hands over the paper. Peter looked at her, attentive. "How much do you know about Neal's childhood?"

Tricky; Neal wasn't someone who wanted people knowing who he really was, and the way he'd grown up was a part of that. June, especially, had power over Neal -- he lived there, and he obviously adored her anyway. She saw Peter's hesitation.

"My granddaughter -- have you met Samantha?" she asked, and Peter shook his head. "She came to visit yesterday. Neal met her when he came down for dinner, and they talked for a little while. She's been sick," she added, and Peter saw the corners of her mouth tighten, weariness in her eyes. Her granddaughter must be very sick, if all June's money and social pull in New York couldn't help. "Neal talked with her about being in the hospital. He sounded like he'd been there a lot, as a boy. Maybe more than most boys, even troublemakers like him. A mother learns to listen for things that sound...off. And he did."

Peter looked down at his coffee cup.

"I don't think much of what goes on in his head gets out into the world," June continued. "Maybe you can't say anything. But if I did need to know, for whatever reason -- you would tell me, wouldn't you?"

He glanced up at her, then back down. "If you needed to know, yeah," he said quietly. "Otherwise, June, it's not really my place."

"More coffee?" she asked lightly, and Peter looked up to see Neal emerging, blinking in the sunlight.

"Morning," Neal muttered, slumping into the third chair at the little table. He scratched absently at the stitches on his scalp while Peter poured him a cup of coffee. "Hey, I did some notes last night. On the thing."

"Notes?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, you know. Stuff I didn't think about before. I think at least one of 'em's on the back of a coloring page though," Neal added. "Did you meet Samantha? She's awesome."

"I haven't had the pleasure," Peter said. "I'll take them. And," he added, lifting the briefcase he'd brought with him and clearing a space for it on the table, "I have something for you."

He popped the locks and opened the case; June craned her head to see what was inside and inhaled sharply.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Peter asked. Inside the briefcase was a leaf of sheepskin vellum, a little larger than a piece of paper, covered in orderly monastic handwriting. At the top left corner was an enormous illuminated T, brilliant in scarlet and goldenrod, with a dragon twining up one side and some kind of feline lying in the top crossbar. The handwriting was in Latin. Neal was gazing at it with covetous longing. "I need you to verify it."

Neal glanced up at him. "Don't you guys have machines and paid experts and stuff?"

"I'm on leave, and you're a paid expert," Peter pointed out.

"Ah," Neal said, reaching not for the vellum but for the pair of white cotton gloves tucked in the lid of the case. He pulled them on and lifted the illuminated leaf out, careful to keep it shaded from the sun. "Another one of your friend-of-the-Bureaus?"

"Something like that," Peter said. Neal didn't need to know that Jones and Cruz had checked the page out of evidence and brought it to him, just like the FBI didn't need to know that Peter was handing a potentially priceless and history-altering document over to a felon to verify. "It's supposedly the first page of something called the Third Codex."

Neal whistled low. "That's supposed to be a legend. What's it's provenance?"

"It hasn't got one. No documentation. I need to know if it's real. Two medievalists and three art historians can't come to an agreement about it."

"Yeah, okay," Neal said, and took the stiff plastic portfolio it had been on top of, sliding it inside. He stood up and was turning around --

"Neal," Peter said. Neal stopped, looking back at him. Sometimes it was downright pleasurable, the way he reacted; when Peter said Neal's name, he was the center of Neal's world, if only for a few seconds. "You can finish breakfast first," he said.

"Good idea," Neal told him. He stripped off the gloves, grabbed a bagel from the plate, shoved it in his mouth and picked up his coffee with his other hand, hurrying back inside. When Peter looked back at June, she had a knowing grin on her face and was sipping her coffee with demure, downcast eyes. 

"Told you not to try and fool me," she said, as he closed the suitcase and stood up to leave. "I don't think you're fooling him, either."

***

The Codex Leaf was beautiful. From the second Peter opened the briefcase, Neal wanted to get alone with it and buy it a drink. Mozzie occasionally made fun of Neal's infatuations with works of art, joking that he didn't want to find a wet spot on a priceless painting, but art was purer than sex and sometimes, depending on the art (and the sex), more fun. Sometimes a piece just took Neal's breath away. Whether the passion was brief or eternal, he enjoyed it when it happened.

Objectively, then, the Codex charmed and engaged him. He didn't care if it was fake. He might like it better if it was; he'd like to meet the artist who forged it, and maybe if he were very lucky they'd have signed their work. If it was real, of course, Peter would be pleased -- no, well, Peter would be pleased if Neal could prove it one way or the other, but he suspected Peter hoped it was real. He could be surprisingly earnest that way.

Mozzie was better with chemicals and blacklights and the science end of things, so Neal could hand it off to him later if necessary. He'd do a visual check, go through all the ways he would have forged this if it were him, and --

He dug into the folder, where a separate compartment contained sheaves of printouts and notes and photocopies from previous researchers. A translation of the Latin, notes on style and motif, a discussion of technique. He ignored them; he could read them once he'd drawn his own conclusions.

Which took, surprisingly, quite a lot of time. Usually Neal could ping on a simple mistake or a technique that only he and a handful of comrades-in-arms would know about, but if the Codex was a forgery, it was brilliantly executed as well as beautifully done. He was still studying it, examining the minute cracks in the material, going over every inch with the artist's magnifier mounted on the table, when he realized the wound in his head was throbbing and his shoulder was stiff and sore.

He didn't like the painkillers, didn't like the way they made him feel, but he did like the fact that they stopped the hurting. He tipped one out of the bottle, studied it, snapped it neatly and took half of it with a swig of cold, stale coffee. He put the Codex back in its folder carefully and stood up to put it safely away.

Byron had bought this house for June and their burgeoning family, but he had bought big on purpose. June had been forthcoming about the guest rooms he'd found hidden behind wall panels, telling him stories of men who'd stayed here and gone away again in the night with new identities and bulging pockets. (She _hadn't_ mentioned the safe room, and he didn't begrudge her that.) Neal suspected even the guest suite had once been a meeting place for men and women he would very much liked to have known, and the lockbox hidden behind the framed sepia newspaper clipping near the door confirmed that. He pressed down on the nail at the top, clicked the light-button, opened the safe, and locked the Codex and the folio away inside it.

It was barely past noon, and he kept fucking up his sleeping schedule, but he lay down on the couch anyway and stretched his shoulder cautiously, easing the cramp of having kept it tense for far too long. Lazy good days, these; he'd be back in harness soon enough, but for now he had a good excuse to rest. He wasn't needed at the Bureau, and in this state he couldn't do anything for Kate or run any kind of con. He couldn't even work a full shift for Peter on the Codex without needing to stop and rest.

He couldn't remember the last time he had rested. Not in prison; you had to keep a sharp eye out there. Not in the marathon against Peter's pursuit, especially towards the end. Even in the early days, even before Kate, he'd spent most of his waking moments trying to scratch out a little reputation and make some cash. 

Kate was his first priority, his single waking thought (that was a lie, something said, but he ignored it) and he had to save her. He had to struggle out of this game he was in and get Kate away from danger and himself, too, and find a place where whoever was after Kate couldn't find them. 

But maybe then he could rest, could find that place in his head like he had three days ago, and again yesterday -- tired, yes, and hurting, but secure. The place he was protected, because he had done his job and someone else was looking after the world outside. If Peter could give him that for an hour's time, surely Kate could give him that for the rest of their lives.

***

It took him three days to find what was wrong with the Codex. He should have started with the notes; an anachronism in the text, slight but present, showed up a word written and then blotted out, just a tiny smear of modern chemicals that glowed like the sun under a very specific range of light.

By that time, Peter was back at the Bureau and his own time off was running short. Another Fed from Legal had come by to make sure he was ready and process him back in, and God, did they have to have _so much_ paperwork?

Jones picked up when he called. "White Collar, Agent Jones speaking."

"Jonesy," Neal said, grinning into the phone. "Where's our fearless leader?"

"Caffrey!" Jones sounded pleased, a good sign. "How's your head?"

"Itchy."

"You ready to ditch the soft life?"

Neal laughed a little. "I live for the soft life. You think I'd get shot by accident? I needed a vacation, man."

"Don't let Peter hear you say that," Jones warned him. "You should've heard the ass-whupping we got."

"Over what?" Neal asked, puzzled.

" _Where was my backup? You were supposed to be covering the alley, did you have your thumbs up your asses or something?_ " Jones said, in a pretty good imitation of Peter at his most furious. "We got reamed over you getting shot."

Neal frowned. "You know I don't blame you, right?"

"Yeah, neither does he, we didn't have orders to be in the alley and Cruz got there fast. He was just pissed. No formal reprimands, just half an hour to get it out of his system."

"Still sucked to be you."

"It's called paying the dues," Jones said carelessly, apparently unbothered by it.

"Isn't he back? Where's he at, anyway?"

"Yeah, he was here this morning, I think he's with Hughes -- no, there he is," Jones corrected himself, and Neal heard a muffled _Agent Burke! Caffrey for you,_ down the line. There was a click, and then Peter's voice on the phone.

"Neal, what's up?"

"Hey, I got good news and bad news on the Codex, which do you want first?"

"Good news," Peter said.

"I can confirm its date of origin," Neal said. "Bad news is, its date of origin is last month or thereabouts."

"It's a fake," Peter sounded disappointed.

"Yeah, sorry."

"You know who did it?"

"No clue," Neal said. "I'd like to find out, they do fantastic work."

More pleasure now, less disappointment. "I'll open a case file. You do a writeup?"

"Paperwork," Neal groaned. "Sure, fine. Hey, so, did the Bureau burn down without you?"

"Just about. I've been cleaning up messes all day. How're you?"

"Ready to be back," Neal answered.

"Nice. We could use you," Peter told him, which felt good. "Come in tomorrow? Are you a hundred percent?"

"Call it ninety-five. I'm good to go."

"I'll pick you up. Bring the Codex. Good work, I'm looking forward to seeing it."

Neal felt a little stab of pleasure as he hung up the phone. Being praised for his work wasn't something he was accustomed to. Mozzie was the eternal critic, which admittedly was part of his charm; other cons over the years had been grudgingly admiring, but most of them had also been trying to either rob him blind or steal his game. Kate had loved him and loved the work they did, but she'd never admitted to being _impressed_ by him.

He wondered sometimes what Peter would think of Kate. Well, what he did think of her, since he had studied her no less than Neal. He hadn't been able to pin anything on her or link Mozzie to either one of them, but Neal knew he'd questioned her. It was strange to reconcile the Peter who'd chased him with the Peter he knew now. Then he'd been just another cop to shake, another game to play when he didn't shake off easily. He hadn't been a guy, with a wife and a dog and a personality.

This Peter, the Peter who liked ugly ties and domestic beer, was someone Neal wanted very much to please, and he still wasn't sure _why_.

***

Neal, Peter could see, was eager to go haring off after the forger of the Third Codex page. He'd expected it, which was why he'd already reassigned it to Jones and Cruz.

"I'll be damned," he said, standing on the terrace, studying the photo Neal had taken of the little blot on an otherwise flawless forgery. "You document it all?"

"Yeah," Neal said, twitching with excitement. Peter gave him a calm smile. "So? I wrote down some ideas for leads..."

"Great, Cruz and Jones will appreciate that," Peter said, putting the photo in the folio and tucking it under one arm.

"What?" Neal asked.

"Your work here is done," Peter told him. "Pat yourself on the back. The junior agents need something to keep them busy and it's gonna be a _lot_ of boring paperwork."

"But -- "

"No buts! We have our own case," Peter told him. Neal looked defiant. "Look, I promise you when they catch the guy -- "

" -- If they catch him! -- "

" _When_ they catch him, you can get his autograph as they walk him to booking. Meanwhile," Peter added, "we have a Haustenberg to find."

Neal's mouth, open for another objection, snapped shut. "A Haustenberg?" he repeated.

"Yep."

"Museum heist?" he asked, interested now.

"Nope," Peter said, pouring himself a cup of June's excellent coffee. "Residential robbery."

"I'd like to meet the person who keeps a Haustenberg over their mantel," Neal decided, and Peter packed the folio with the Codex forgery in it away without another word.

It felt good to be fencing with Neal again, working on new ways to keep him off-balance, because an off-balance Neal was a Neal who wasn't thinking about running. Which was why Peter made sure Neal knew three things about the Haustenberg case:

1\. He knew Neal didn't steal it, because  
2\. He checked his anklet _every day_ and  
3\. He still wasn't sure Neal wouldn't steal it if the opportunity presented itself.

With, perhaps, the unspoken 4: He would keep Neal from stealing it, if necessary, and that was for Neal's own good.

Peter liked Julianna Sandor, the painting's owner; she was well-spoken for someone so young, and she seemed gutsy, willing to hit someone threatening to kill her just because they told her not to. He also liked Taryn Van Der Zand, the gallery agent who agreed to help them set up a sting. Neal seemed to like Taryn too. He seemed to like Taryn a _lot_.

His instinctive reaction was to warn Taryn off him and warn him off Taryn, but meddling in the middle of an op was bad for business. He decided to compromise; he stopped Taryn on her way into the little back office where his tech agents were already taping a bug to Neal's chest.

"Can I give you some advice about Neal?" he asked, and Taryn turned a slight frown on him.

"If you think I need it," she said cautiously.

"Better safe than sorry?"

"Okay," she replied, crossing her arms. Peter chewed on his lip for a second.

"Don't let him redirect. Don't let him sidetrack you," he said. "Don't let him tell you any tall stories. You know where he comes from?"

She tilted her head. "I know that thing on his ankle's not a commendation for good behaviour. Is it true he broke out of prison for a girl?"

Peter made a mental note to find out who she'd been talking to, and bust them for indiscretion.

"Ask him that," he said. "See, I think he likes you -- "

"Is that why he tried to charm me?"

"No, he does that to everyone," Peter sighed.

"I like him," Taryn said.

"Just...remember that he likes to charm, and that he doesn't often meet people he can't charm."

Taryn gave him a grin. "Yeah, I get it. Can I go now, Dad?"

Peter grinned back. "Have fun."

He got back to the surveillance van just in time to hear Taryn ask Neal if it was true he just got out of prison. She didn't waste any time using the ammo he'd given her, which was impressive and kind of annoying, too.

"Yes," Neal said, after one failed attempt to sidetrack her. "I just got out of prison. Yes, Peter is the guy who put me there."

There was almost a note of shame in his voice, as if he understood this humiliation was part of his new sentence. Peter frowned.

"And yes," Neal finished, "I'm tempted."

He knew they were listening. He knew Peter was listening. Jones glanced at Peter.

"What's that all about?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," Peter said, though he was -- Neal was announcing to her, and to Peter, that the money was tempting, but he wasn't going to go for it. Peter wondered if his little pep talk about Neal being tempted to steal the Haustenberg had been misplaced, and then realized that was exactly what Neal wanted him to wonder.

He had to push, every single time, he _had to push_. Still, there wasn't much time to think about that -- Dorsett, the would-be salesman of the Haustenberg, was arriving at the gallery. From here on, it was in Neal and Taryn's hands.

***

Neal was annoyed.

He was annoyed that he had to wear a wire, because the tape pulled on his skin and the whole thing always made him feel like a snitch. He was annoyed that Peter had given away half his bag of tricks to Taryn Van Der Zand. He was annoyed that he'd lost his cool and announced that yeah, he'd love to take the money and run, because while on one level it was true on another it was petty bitching at Peter.

Most of all, though, he was annoyed that Gerard Dorsett was flirting with him, and he was (albeit unwittingly) doing it in front of Peter. Not that Neal minded flirting with men -- far from it -- but Dorsett was an unsubtle, grasping, ratty little loan shark and if they'd met as fellow professionals Neal wouldn't have given him the time of day. It galled him to think Peter was hearing this, and that he would likely be teased about it later by the other agents.

"We use the expression _butterfly_ for a man who flits from flower to flower," Dorsett was telling him, leering, and Neal prayed fervently that when _he_ wanted to charm someone he didn't sound so...oily. "A man such as yourself could be quite a successful butterfly."

"We consider butterflies weak, delicate creatures," Neal said, letting his temper momentarily get the best of him.

"But flap their wings, and they can set off hurricanes -- "

"That's beautiful," Neal said, stepping on the end of the sentence to try and shut him up. "You should write a book. Could we...?"

Dorsett wouldn't stop, but Neal would give him this: the whole time he was bullshitting about his girlfriend and her subtextual sexual rapacity, he was taking things in, formulating a plan. He saw the feds on the back entrance (Neal was going to make Peter rip whoever tipped their hand a new one) and he played for time and then he drew a gun and got away clean.

With Peter's money. Well, with the FBI's money.

Peter, concerned with keeping their cover, had them arrested -- really arrested, taken down to the station and everything, and only sprung him after Neal had been sitting in a holding cell fretting for the better part of an hour.

"Taryn's out, I had Jones take her home," Peter said, leading him down the hallway towards the station's back entrance.

"You couldn't call?" Neal demanded.

"And say what? I was taking care of things," Peter replied.

"I could have -- "

"Your job was to be arrested, keep your cover, and let me handle this," Peter told him. "You gotta trust me, Neal."

"I trust the hell out of you, but you _left me_ in a _jail cell_ ," Neal hissed.

"Because I had to. Gimme a little credit, I was running stings while you were still picking pockets in Las Vegas," Peter said. Neal paused.

"You know about Las Vegas?" he asked. He was sure nobody could link him to the Las Vegas job, because nobody would believe a nineteen-year-old kid was capable of forging poker chips of that quality and quantity, but if Peter knew he'd been there, all bets were off. 

"See? This is why you should trust me. I'm not as dumb as I sound," Peter told him. "In the car, I'm taking you home."

"You gonna duck my head for me too?" Neal challenged, as Peter opened the passenger's side door. Peter studied him for a minute, neither one of them moving. Then, so quickly Neal didn't have time to react, Peter put his hand on top of Neal's head, pushed it down, and shoved him into the car. Neal, half-sprawled on the seat in surprise, stared up at him.

"You have a job to do," Peter said, standing over him. "And yeah, sometimes that job sucks, but I needed this from you. You can have all the guts and glory you want when I say so and if I say so, but the job comes first. You of all people should know the job comes first."

Neal swallowed and nodded, pulling his legs into the car. He didn't look up as he buckled his seatbelt, didn't look up when Peter climbed into the driver's seat and started the car. They were halfway to June's place before he spoke again.

"About Las Vegas..." he began. Peter snorted. "Whatever you think I did I have an alibi for."

"You were some punk-ass nineteen-year-old," Peter told him. "You had no business being in Vegas. I don't know if you were counting cards or stealing from the tourists or what and _I don't want to know_ ," he added, as Neal opened his mouth. "What the hell was a kid who isn't even old enough to gamble doing in casinos?"

"Making money," Neal muttered.

"Sure. I guess it beats turning tricks," Peter said, and Neal's head snapped up, because that was something he'd never done and Peter, with all his extensive records, had to know that. Which meant the blow was coming -- after Dorsett, he expected some cheap shots about his sexuality, but not from Peter.

Except the next thing Peter said had nothing to do with Dorsett. As if Peter wasn't even aware of what had gone on, or didn't care.

"Someone should've been watching out for you," he said. "Someone should have done better by you."

Neal stared at him. The last thing in the world he expected was that anyone cared what he was doing when he was nineteen (except maybe the Las Vegas police), and the idea that Peter thought someone should have cared was...weird. Yeah, he had been a punk-ass kid, and the punk-ass kid was looking out of his eyes at Peter in shock and bewilderment.

"What?" Peter asked. "You think it's good, that life? You think that's healthy?"

"I made my choices," Neal said slowly, trying to decide how to defend himself against this flank attack. "I enjoyed it, yeah. What was I supposed to be doing, binge drinking at college and getting spoon-fed in art history classes?"

Peter's fingers flexed on the steering wheel. "I don't know. Not conning people. Not spending every minute looking over your shoulder."

"I liked my work, Peter. I had a good time." Neal shrugged, carefully casual. "I didn't have to start looking over my shoulder until you turned up."

"Yeah, and now you won't even let me watch your back," Peter retorted.

"You made them arrest me!"

"Shut up and sit quietly," Peter ordered, and Neal found himself obeying -- sullenly, but obeying, because he was already tired of this stupid fight. He was embarrassed they'd let Dorsett get away and irritated over everything that had happened and he felt naked in front of Peter and he just wanted to go home. His head itched and ached where the wound was still healing.

"Get some rest," Peter said, when they pulled up in front of June's place. "I'll pick you up tomorrow. The case isn't over."

"Yes sir," Neal drawled. Peter pulled a face but didn't dive back into it; he just waited until Neal was inside and pulled away. Neal watched the car leave through the front window, and then climbed the stairs slowly to his room.

Mozzie was there, a half-eaten sandwich at his elbow, reading a book from Byron's bookshelf.

"Hey," Mozzie called. "I think document forgery's the next big thing. Do you have any idea the kind of money you could make from 'discovering' a forgotten Hemingway manuscript?"

"I don't like Hemingway," Neal said, hanging up his jacket and pulling off his tie.

"Huh. Shame. You look like crap," Moz announced.

"Thanks, Moz," Neal said, dropping onto the bed and toeing his shoes off.

"How was work? It's eleven-thirty. Did they fire you already?"

"Long morning. Mozzie, lemme ask you something," Neal said, staring at the ceiling. "Why are you here?"

"Well, if you're gonna be like that about it, I can leave," Moz told him primly.

"No, not here, _here_." Neal waved a hand around the room, indicating the world at large. "Helping me out."

Moz frowned at him. "Free sandwiches," he said. "And Kate needs us. Are you having some kind of existential crisis? Because I'll tell you right now, Dianetics is not the answer."

Neal snorted. "No. Never mind."

"Whatever," Moz said, sounding suspicious. "I'm gonna go bug June about letting me get a look at some of the first editions in the downstairs library. I clearly don't know enough about mid-twentieth-century printing practices."

Neal waved a hand in acknowledgment. When he heard the door close behind Moz, he kicked his legs up onto the bed, curled up on his side, and slept for the better part of the afternoon.

***

Peter went straight from dropping Neal off to lunch with Elizabeth, though he took a scenic route to calm his nerves first. He honestly didn't care what Neal had been doing in Vegas, since he couldn't prove anything anyway and there was no point in digging up an old crime just to get Neal packed back off to prison. He'd only dropped the information to remind Neal that he always held more cards than Neal thought he did. Something about it had upset Neal, though, and it was just as well he'd benched him for the rest of the day.

Elizabeth thought his mood over lunch had to do with the hundred grand they'd lost that morning when Dorsett took the money _and_ the painting and bolted. She didn't bring it up until they were both well-fed and he'd had time to get it all under control; El was good that way. She still brought it up, of course, but she had good timing.

It came back around to Neal, and Peter's frustration with him, if not in the way he'd expected; Neal's petulance was a passing mood, and his flirtation with everything that breathed was more puzzling. El thought Taryn would be good for Neal, or at least distracting; Peter's first instinct was still the same, but as she pointed out (and while he prided himself on his understanding of people, El understood romance much better than him) it might get him to track off Kate a little. He was still turning it over in his mind when he left work, when they made dinner together, and when they took Satchmo out to the park that evening.

"Your mind's still on the job, huh?" El asked him, sitting in the grass, throwing a tennis ball for Satchmo to go fetch. Peter, leaning against a convenient tree, shrugged one-shouldered. "Still on Neal?"

"He's a good op," Peter said. "I'm trying to show him what a chance this is for him."

"Mm. Peter Burke reforms the hardened felon," El teased.

"I want..." Peter considered how to say it. "I want Neal to be good. I don't want him backsliding, because sooner or later he's gonna get shot, or sent up forever, and that's a waste of a brilliant mind. Hell, he could have work in galleries under his own name, if he wanted, but he doesn't. He's got the skill."

"Maybe he thinks that's not enough of a challenge," El pointed out.

"I dunno. He wants Kate, and if he gets Kate he has zero motivation to stay. If he gets Kate back, they'll run."

El was quiet, throwing the ball for Satchmo again.

"Someone to settle him could be good for him, but I barely know this woman," Peter continued. "Neal's my responsibility. I can't just drop him into someone else's hands."

"Why don't you let him decide that?" El asked.

"Because Neal makes phenomenally bad decisions," Peter sighed. Satchmo dropped the ball on his shoe with a wet splat. Peter kicked it, and Satchmo gave him the canine equivalent of a sarcastic look before bounding after it. "Besides, Neal charms everyone. She might not even like him, once she gets to know him."

"Peter, sweetie, everyone likes Neal once they get to know him."

Peter had to concede this was true. He liked Neal, and he'd put him behind bars for four years.

"We'll see how tomorrow goes," he said. "First priority is to get the money and the painting back. We stay on track, I keep Neal busy, anything else is just a bonus."

***

Neal had ended up in a lot of strange places in his life, and a lot of precarious situations. Sometimes he was solo, sometimes with a partner, once in a while with a team if he was doing a big job. He didn't like teams; too many people could screw up, too much could go wrong. He felt the perfect con should never require more than three people. He and Kate and Moz had been a good trio. 

The point was, he'd worked with a partner before. He'd worked with Peter on what he would call cons and Peter would call 'operations', and it hadn't gone badly. So when the opportunity came to seduce Dorsett's girlfriend into giving them access to her hotel suite, for any number of good and bad reasons, Neal took it and looped Peter in -- and watched in well-disguised but heartfelt horror as Peter turned into a totally inept idiot in front of his eyes.

Peter couldn't talk to girls.

Now he knew Peter's weak spot, for what that was worth, but it was too late to turn back. Peter had said the job was sometimes unpleasant; well, let him get a little taste of that.

He'd already lifted the key to Brigitte's bedroom and snuck inside; out in the lounge of the suite he could hear Peter doing the shoddiest job of keeping a pair of women entertained that Neal had ever encountered. They didn't seem to care, which was something. Why would they, after all? Peter might be inept, but they didn't speak English anyway, and Peter was a handsome man. It didn't hurt that Neal had told them Peter had a huge cock -- which was not spoken from personal knowledge, but it wasn't like Peter was going to whip it out and disappoint them. And if he had implied that he and Peter sometimes entertained themselves together, well, that just added to the allure for women like Brigitte.

Focus. He had to focus. That part of the con was done, and now here in this little room he had to find the Haustenberg.

He really didn't mean to steal it. When he found it he felt the acquisitive instinct of a thief alone in someone else's bedroom; that was only natural. But he would have followed Peter's orders not to steal it, except that this girl in the painting was Julianna's grandmother, and the painting had been a gift from Julianna's great-grandfather. Not to mention, he respected her grandmother's guts in stealing it from the Channing.

So, with a whispered apology to Byron, Neal ripped open the seam on the collar of his jacket, just wide enough to slide the painting into the pocket created by the lining, wrapped in a bit of fabric to hide the hard corners. He left a little origami memento for Dorsett, hung the jacket over his arm, and made sure to flush the toilet on his way out.

Peter looked incredibly relieved to see him, until Neal did a double-take and ducked back into the bathroom. This got the attention of the women, who knocked on the door and asked in French if he was all right.

" _I ate something nasty with dinner_ ," he called through the door, and mimicked the sound of a man being very sick.

"Neal," Peter called through the door. Neal fake-vomited again and re-flushed the toilet, dabbing water from the sink on his face.

" _I don't think I'm well_ ," he announced, when the door opened. " _I'm so sorry..._ "

They couldn't hustle him and Peter out of the suite fast enough, after that -- the last thing anyone wants is to be stuck taking care of a sick stranger when they came there to party.

Once they were out of the hotel, Neal straightened from his sick half-slouch and grinned at Peter, bouncing a little on his toes.

"What the hell were you thinking?" Peter asked him, as they crossed the hotel lobby floor. "What the hell was _I_ thinking?"

"They've got the Haustenberg," Neal announced.

"Neal!"

"Hey, you did fine in there," Neal said, stepping out into the balmy New York evening.

"El called me," Peter told him.

"And?"

"And I had to tell her I was in a nightclub. I don't like lying to my wife because you wanted to rope me into a con," Peter told him.

"Jesus, relax already," Neal replied. "What's got you so bothered? You do stings all the time."

"Not where I end up in a hotel room with two nubile young women who want to make out on the couch," Peter hissed. He popped the locks on the car and climbed into the driver's seat. Neal tossed his coat in the back, making sure the fold of the fabric hid the square outline of the painting. He felt electrified, full of nervous energy, like he always did when he was fooling everyone in the room. He had Julianna's painting and could give it back to her, and tomorrow Peter would take down Dorsett and get the money back. Everyone got a happy ending.

Peter didn't start the car immediately, just rested his hands on the steering wheel and let out a slow breath. "That was bad. That was not good procedure."

"We found the Haustenberg," Neal pointed out, confused as to why Peter was freaking out. His first thought was that Peter must have _huge_ girl issues.

"I'm not sure your breaking and entering is gonna hold up in court," Peter told him. He still hadn't started the car. Neal studied his face, and then glanced down --

Aha. So Peter had been having a better time than he let on, or at least parts of him thought so.

"Well, I won't mention that you were busy getting felt up at the time," Neal said, leaning in close. Peter didn't turn his head, but when Neal slid a hand over his thigh he hissed again.

"Neal!"

"What, you're gonna go home to Elizabeth like that?" Neal asked, reasonable, very reasonable. "Lemme help you out. I got you into this."

Peter did turn then, with a sharp look, and Neal felt the air fucking _crackle_. The car was in shadow, and Peter hadn't actually made a move to stop him. Neal suddenly wanted him much more than he wanted the Haustenberg, or to slam-dunk the case, or anything else. He wasn't terribly good at denying himself what he wanted at the best of times, let alone in a dark car with one of the few people in the world who could outmatch him.

"Neal," Peter said again, and it was a warning, but it felt like a plea. Neal spread his fingers wide and Peter's breath hitched. He dragged his hand up to Peter's belt-buckle, ducking further forward to press his face to the side of Peter's throat.

"C'mon, Peter, lemme," he said, and if Peter didn't say _yes_ then he definitely wasn't saying _no_. Neal nuzzled against his throat and kissed his pulse while he worked the belt buckle open, and it wasn't until he had his hand flat on Peter's stomach, under his shirt, that Peter took one hand off the steering wheel and pressed it over Neal's. "Yeah," Neal said. "Yeah, okay..."

He ducked down further, grateful for the flat-design of the car, no awkward gearshift to maneuver around, nosing at Peter's tie briefly, kissing his knuckles. His hand came down too, shoving clothing aside as best he could, while Peter breathed short and fast.

As it turned out, his estimation of Peter to Brigitte wasn't entirely wrong.

The angle was awkward but he'd had worse; Peter took his hand away and laid it on his head instead, guiding him, tacit approval in the touch. Neal licked around the crown of his cock, and Peter huffed a short laugh. It was the loudest sound he made even after Neal swallowed him down and sucked, buried in Peter's smell and taste, working hard for every soft noise out of Peter's mouth. He loved them, filing them away in his mind to be brought out and studied later even as Peter was trying to push him away, mumbling "Gonna -- " and Neal pushed too and just leaned back a little to swallow when Peter said "Ah -- Neal -- " and came.

Neal rested his face against the bare few inches of Peter's stomach for a minute, feeling a rush like he'd just come himself. It wasn't long before Peter pushed him again, gently, and Neal sat up to look at his face. It was -- unreadable, perhaps a little less tense around the eyes but otherwise smooth and unrevealing.

"I am a dead man," Peter mumbled, doing up his trousers, rebuckling his belt.

"Hey, it was just -- "

"No. You don't talk," Peter told him, not looking at him. He started the car and pulled out into traffic, nearly hitting a passing sedan. The car screamed an alarm and they both winced. "Oh my God, this fucking Taurus," Peter said.

Neal had half expected an offer of reciprocation, and been prepared to deny it -- that was something he'd wanted from Peter, not really something he'd been offering in trade -- but Peter didn't say a thing. On the other hand, he was almost glad that Peter drove the rest of the way to June's in silence, left him off with a brief admonition to meet for coffee at their usual cafe near HQ the next morning, and drove away.

It was a good evening. The Haustenberg was safely stashed in the wall-safe, he'd pulled a fast one on Dorsett, he'd helped the case, and he'd gotten what he wanted: Peter, if only for a brief few minutes.

His single worry, really, was Elizabeth. He knew exactly what it meant, what he'd done, and he thought...well, he hoped Peter would just tell a little lie, but if Elizabeth knew what had happened he still thought she'd understand that it wasn't really any different from Peter looking after him on a case or him doing stupid things that made Peter grin. People could be weird about their spouses (look at Peter and those two girls) but Elizabeth was a smart woman. She had to know Neal was no threat to her.

It didn't occur to him, not until much later, that he hadn't even treated Kate as an irrelevancy in his considerations. She simply hadn't entered the picture at all.


	3. Chapter 3

Peter parked the car outside his house and looked up at the windows, checking to see if the bedroom light on the second floor was lit. All dark; El was probably asleep.

He had no idea what had just happened. Well, other than the obvious, but he was literally clueless as to how he'd allowed it to happen. He'd been nervous and confused and kinda turned on, not just by the presence of a couple of beautiful women (and anyone who liked women would have been) but by the thrill of the quasi-legal, of doing something that could gain them everything but that was probably not strictly something the Bureau would approve of. If Neal felt like that after every con, no wonder he'd pulled so many. He'd felt high, despite his anger with Neal, and then Neal had looked at him like he was drowning and the next thing Peter knew he was getting a blowjob in a car from his pet felon.

He tried to list all the ways in which he was screwed. One, he was going to have to figure out how and if to tell El. Two, it was a breach of his personal responsibility for Neal as his handler. Three, it was technically a breach of FBI non-fraternization policy. Four, the FBI frowned on men who were unfaithful to their wives. Five, no cop in the world would believe Neal wasn't doing him for money if they'd happened to glance into the car. Six, he'd lost control --

He'd lost control, because what had happened hadn't really been about him. It had been about Neal needing something, wanting something so much Peter could feel it in the air when Neal looked at him. He'd rewarded Neal, and he was almost positive he shouldn't have.

God, this was fucked up.

One thing at a time. Of the list, some were problems only if Neal made them problems, and he wouldn't; some were problems with Neal directly, but that couldn't be dealt with until morning and perhaps wouldn't be dealt with at all, knowing Neal. Some were irrelevant, speculation born of increased anxiety. 

Which just left the question of One: Elizabeth.

He'd have to tell her. She knew when he was lying, and it was the right thing to do. And if he had to tell her, then -- well, he should tell her tonight, but he suspected the last thing any woman wanted was to be woken up so her husband could confess he'd just let another guy blow him.

He let himself into the house, still trying to figure out what he should do. Satchmo, asleep on his pillow in the living room, didn't stir. Peter shed his coat and shoes and climbed the stairs slowly, pulling off his tie.

In the bedroom, El was awake -- propped on one elbow, brushing hair out of her eyes. "Hey, sweetie."

Shit.

"Hey," he said, bending over to kiss her. "I thought you'd be asleep."

"Mm, I almost was, but I heard the door," she told him, while he took off his shirt and trousers, pulling a pair of pyjama pants on. He felt as if he must smell like Neal, who always smelled just a little bit like turpentine and dust. He sat on the edge of the bed, staring down at his hands.

"Something wrong?" she asked, sitting up and resting her chin on his shoulder.

"Neal and I had a thing," he said. There.

"Yeah, how'd the stakeout go?" she asked.

He inhaled. "No, I mean -- it went -- badly. Kind of."

"Is Neal okay?" El sounded concerned -- of course she was. She liked Neal. Everybody liked Neal.

"Yeah," he snorted, rubbing his face. "Neal's fine. We. El, that's not what I meant, there was this _thing_ \-- "

El leaned around his shoulder and cocked an eyebrow at him. "Do I get more than 'thing'?"

"After the stakeout, we -- there was a thing."

El laughed a little at him. God, he was the biggest asshole in the world.

"Peter, you and Neal have had some kind of thing since you started chasing him," she told him. He looked at her, startled. She tilted her head. "What happened?"

"Just, after the stakeout, it wasn't -- good, I..." he fumbled for how to tell her, because he could feel his marriage crashing around his ears and he had fucked up the best thing in his life and maybe that was what Neal had intended.

"Honey, calm down. Shh," El said, coming to kneel next to him. He turned and rested his forehead on her shoulder. "I think I get it. _That_ kind of thing. Nothing else would upset you this much."

"I didn't mean..." he trailed off, waiting for her to push him away. She was still and quiet for a little while, but she didn't move.

"Was it hot?" she asked, finally.

"El, I'm so sorr -- " he stopped when the words registered. He leaned back. "What?"

"Sweetie, obviously you're _sorry_ ," El said, looking at him like he was an idiot. "If I was going to be jealous of Neal Caffrey I'd have left you five years ago. Like I said. You and Neal have always had a thing. So. Did you kiss him? Was it hot?"

Peter blinked at her. 

"Is that relevant?" he asked, when it was obvious she wasn't going to spend any more time explaining why she hadn't already found something to stab him with.

"Well." She sat back, pulling her knees up and resting her chin on them, grinning at him. "You tell me about all your cases. I think the least you can do is give me a vicarious thrill. Peter, no, come on," she said, catching him by the arm when he tried to stand. "I'm serious, honey. It doesn't matter to me."

"Why not?" he asked, still confused. More confused, perhaps, than he had been.

"Well, you're not packing your bags and moving in with him, are you?" she asked, smiling. "Besides, I like Neal. Now, are you really going to get mad I'm _not_ mad? Because _then_ I might be annoyed. I bet it was hot," she added, her grin widening.

He turned again and rested an arm across her knees, his forehead touching hers.

"I don't know," he murmured. "El, I'm turned around. I don't know."

"Poor confused boy." She kissed him. "Come to bed, I'm tired. We'll talk about it more in the morning."

He was confused, more than confused; he'd told her everything (well, okay, almost nothing, but enough) and she'd laughed at him and told him to come to bed, and now she was curled up against him, sleeping as if she didn't have a care in the world. Peter tightened his arm around her until she protested sleepily, then closed his eyes and tried to sleep himself. It was a long time coming.

***

"Okay, so, I have a plan," Neal said, before Peter even had time to say hello the next morning. He didn't get to order his own coffee, either; Neal handed him one of the two cups he was carrying and watched nervously as he sipped it. "I have a story."

"Good morning," Peter said. Neal ignored him.

"Lemme talk to Elizabeth," Neal said. "It's the least I can do."

"No, the least you can do is _nothing_ ," Peter replied, as Neal took off walking towards HQ. "Which is exactly what you will do."

"It's my fault," Neal told him, though he didn't sound terribly repentant.

"No," Peter said. "I don't need you to lie to my wife." _Please don't lie to my wife, especially since I've already told her the truth._

"You gonna do it yourself?" Neal asked, and Peter almost told him that this whole discussion was a moot point. Not that he felt he and Elizabeth were totally sorted; she'd been gone when he woke up, which didn't bode well. On the other hand, she'd left him a note like she always did when she had a breakfast load-in for the company, and the _I love you_ at the bottom was a good sign.

Still, why go easy on Neal? Let him work for it for a little while, and see what it was like to worry.

"No," he said.

"The truth! Peter, bold choice," Neal said, but he sounded scared. Before Peter could continue, Neal had poured out an entire fake backstory for the evening, talking unusually fast. "See, I would tell her that I wouldn't stop complaining about the car so you let me go into the nightclub and you witnessed the suspect enter after me and had no choice but to follow."

Peter glanced at him. "It's almost the truth."

Neal was definitely scared. "It's better than alimony."

"It's not necessary," Peter told him. Neal's eyes widened a fraction. "I told her."

"You what?"

Peter gave him a small, tight smile. "I told her. Last night. Lying now would be kind of pointless."

"What did she say?" Neal asked.

Peter blew air through his lips. "She asked if it was hot."

He had the rare pleasure of seeing Neal taken completely by surprise. Neal _sputtered._ Peter's phone rang.

"This conversation? Not over. Put on pause. Everything that happened after nine o'clock last night is put on pause," Peter told him, and answered his phone.

It was Jones, calling with the news that Dorsett had gotten away from the hotel, leaving behind a couple of pairs of skimpy women's underwear, an empty hidden frame, and a distinct lack of money or painting.

"Is Caffrey with you?" Jones asked.

"Yeah, why?"

"Don't let on when I tell you this, but there's something else you should see," Jones said. "Your eyes only."

Peter's interest was piqued, but he had bigger problems to deal with. Neal was standing on the sidewalk watching him, rocking back and forth from foot to foot like an overeager dog.

"Dorsett escaped," Peter told him, after he'd hung up with Jones.

"This is bad," Neal said.

"Yeah, this is bad," Peter agreed.

"What did you say?" Neal asked.

"What?" Peter asked.

"When she asked you, what'd you say?"

"Pause," Peter told him.

"But -- "

"Neal, I swear to God, if you say one more word before I tell you to speak I will put you back in an orange jumpsuit," Peter snapped. Neal opened his mouth, then closed it again and nodded, casting his eyes downward. It wasn't the first time he'd done that, the immediate obedience over unimportant matters, but Peter didn't have time to be spooked by it today. 

When they arrived at the office, Hughes was livid and a handful of agents from a hastily-opened inquiry into the stolen cash were loitering outside Peter's office. Jones was waving for his attention; Cruz was barking orders at file clerks.

"You, speak only when spoken to," Peter said to Neal, then turned to Jones. "You, in my office when I'm done with Hughes. Cruz!" he yelled. 

"Yeah boss!" she yelled back, running up to him.

"Stop trying to make us look more efficient than we are," he told her. "I want a report on everything we know once I get done with Jones. You two, keep an eye on Caffrey," he added. Neal looked insulted. "Nobody pesters him, nobody asks him any questions unless one of you is standing next to him looking threatening. Everyone clear?"

"Yes, boss." "Yes, boss."

Peter looked at Neal.

"The job comes first," Neal said, shrugging. Peter nodded and went to get his ass kicked by Hughes.

This was probably karmic revenge for the brutal half-hour bawling-out he'd given Jones and Cruz after Neal was shot, but it was how these things worked. As the boss, when something went wrong, you took it out on the person who was closest to the disaster when it happened. Jones and Cruz weren't to blame for Neal getting shot any more than Peter was for a bust gone wrong, but someone had to pay.

It was one of Hughes' better performances, if a little over the top so the boys from the inquiry would hear. Peter took his chastisement easily -- it wasn't his first by any means -- and made all the proper promises. They'd get the money back. He had leads.

"Jones, please to God tell me we have a lead," Peter said, once he'd been banished from Hughes's sight and slunk back to his own office in shame.

"Yeah, we do," Jones said. "But you're not gonna like it."

He passed Peter the official case log for the Haustenberg theft. Peter opened it, noticing that Jones was blocking easy visibility from the rest of the office with his body.

Clipped to the inside of the file was a yellow origami butterfly.

"What the hell is this?" Peter asked.

"Something I did not log into evidence," Jones told him. Peter raised an eyebrow. "Found it in the empty frame where the Haustenberg used to be."

Peter fingered the butterfly thoughtfully. "Neal," he sighed.

"You think he was in on it with Dorsett?"

"Neal wouldn't spit on Dorsett if he was on fire," Peter said. Jones grinned. "No, this was..."

Last night, he realized. Neal had taken the painting last night, while he was being mobbed by Brigitte and her friend, and left Dorsett a calling card. What the hell had he done with it? Where had he put it?

Peter thought about Neal carrying his jacket out of the hotel, tossing it in the backseat of the car, and -- oh, _shit_. That had been...what, a distraction?

But he'd already gotten away with it. Peter was already distracted. So why...

"What d'you want me to do?" Jones asked. Peter shook his head and closed the log.

"Don't tell Caffrey. If he's got the painting it doesn't really matter. We still gotta catch Dorsett with the cash and we're a lot more likely to do that if Neal's working with us," Peter decided. "There's a chance Dorsett'll try to come after the painting. Might be able to float it as bait."

"Without letting Caffrey know you know he took it?" Jones raised an eyebrow.

"One thing at a time. Today, we're all about processing evidence and tracking Dorsett. We make no headway today, tomorrow we'll reopen this. Does Cruz know?"

"Yeah, but she's fine with it."

"I'm training up a pair of delinquents," Peter said, grinning. "If I ever catch you not logging something into evidence again, I'll have your ass."

"Yessir," Jones said, and left Peter alone with his thoughts.

They spent the day in paperwork and phone calls -- receipts from the hotel room, local traffic cameras, interviewing hotel staff. However Dorsett had slipped away had been good work; Neal might not like the guy but he was resourceful when he wanted to be.

Neal came up to him around four o'clock, and Peter looked at him and said, " _Pause_ ," and Neal went away again, looking like Peter had kicked a kitten in front of him. He felt bad, but it was just that by the end of the day all he wanted was dinner with Elizabeth and to forget about Neal's existence for a little while.

Only of course he couldn't do that. Because he and El were going to talk about Neal. It was probably going to be a very long talk full of very awkward things.

Still, when he walked in the door that evening, El met him with a kiss and an admonition to check on the roast in the slow-cooker and see if it was done, because she had two quick phone calls to make about a charity auction she was handling. Then, when she was off the phone, she wanted to know about the case, and the whole story sort of poured out: Dorsett escaping, the painting and cash going missing, the butterfly, the fact that he knew Neal took the painting. And the fact that if they didn't catch Dorsett, he'd have to turn Neal in, and Neal would go back to prison.

He was aware that in some sense they were dancing around the real problem, even though Neal _was_ the real problem. El didn't seem nervous or upset. She didn't even seem like she was anticipating anything.

"Honey, about last night," he began, because he didn't think he could sit through a whole dinner without bringing this up and he was sure if he could he wouldn't enjoy it. "This thing with Neal."

"Oh, the _thing_ ," she said, looking amused.

"It was just, we'd come off the...recovery," he said, lips twisting, "And Neal was practically throwing sparks, he was so full of energy, and -- "

"Sweetie," Elizabeth said, pouring the wine. "Stop talking for a minute."

Peter watched her meticulously fill the wine glasses.

"When you took Neal's case, back when you were chasing him, you looked like you were having fun," she said, setting the bottle aside. "And then, okay, you got a little obsessed -- "

"I did not -- " Peter paused. "Fine. A little. Not much."

"And I thought, _this is what they warned me would happen. This is when I lose him to the job,_ " El said. Peter frowned.

"Who warned you?" he demanded.

"Honey, everyone warned me. Everyone we know has seen way too many TV shows about determined cops who lose their wives because they can't leave their job at the door," she told him. "But you still came home every night, and we still had dinner and watched TV and went out for drinks and had our life. So I thought, if I have to leave you alone once in a while with this...Caffrey man you were going to catch, that was okay. Everyone does it; you did it for me when I was getting the company off the ground. I think there was one month we almost never saw each other awake."

"I..." Peter felt like he'd been slapped. He'd noticed that he was bringing his work home more than he should, and he'd tried not to, but he didn't know El had been so...aware of it.

"I'm not giving you a guilt trip. I'm saying, I'm used to sharing with Neal Caffrey," she told him. "Especially now. I like Neal. I've got you, and sometimes he needs you, and I'm okay with that. I can give him a little bit of you. Which isn't to say that I won't kill you both if it happens again," she added, taking the lid off the roast. "Because I will."

"It's not gonna happen again," Peter assured her hastily. She gave him an eyebrow. "What? It's not."

"Make sure it doesn't," she told him. "Anyway, you never answered my question."

"What...question...?"

"Was it hot?" she asked, giving him a sly smile.

"Now, um. I'm gonna have to plead the fifth on that," he told her, and she laughed.

"Fair enough. I'll get it out of you eventually," she said, but apparently that was the end of it. At least, for now.

Peter thought he might have the most amazing wife in New York. Possibly in the whole country.

***

In a way, it was a relief when Neal answered his phone that night and Dorsett was on the other end of the line.

Peter had ignored him all day, but the promise of the conversation they hadn't yet had was gnawing at Neal. Peter wasn't going to ignore him forever, and when he stopped ignoring him, it was probably going to be ugly. This was the kind of situation that Neal normally bolted from -- he'd bolted from Alex when the thing with Kate happened -- but Peter could find him anywhere, even if he cut his tracker.

He gnawed on a thumbnail, pacing. Peter would certainly stop ignoring him if he brought him the painting. He'd put him back in prison, but at least it'd be over. Or Neal could give the painting back to Julianna and forge a copy for them to "find", and then at least they'd have the painting back, if not the money. Or he could --

Which was when the phone rang, and down the line Dorsett told Neal that if he didn't get the painting back, Taryn would suffer.

So, in the end, he did what he should have done at the start: he went to Peter.

He called Cruz when he was already in the cab, and a certain amount of abject pleading and promises of many favors to come convinced her to call and have his tracker authorized to leave his radius.

"I'm following you," she said, when she took him off call waiting. "I've got a map right here."

It was 90% probable she was lying, but Neal played along. "Then you can log off when you see me stop at Peter's place."

"What's this all about, anyway?"

"Workin' on the case," he told her, and hung up.

He was banking on Peter answering the door when he rang the bell. He heard Satch barking in the house and Peter swearing at him to shut up, but when the door opened it was Elizabeth standing there on the threshold.

Neal was sure she could read every line of guilt in his face and every totally unrepentant thought in his head. She looked like she knew exactly what he'd done and why he'd done it. Suddenly, what he'd done with Peter seemed small and pathetic and kind of stupid.

"Elizabeth," he said, swallowing. "I need to talk to Peter."

She gave him a small smile. "Come on in, Neal. Peter's in the kitchen."

Peter was emerging from the kitchen, in fact, arms crossed over his chest.

"You're outside your radius again," he said.

"I got Cruz to approve it," Neal told him.

"You couldn't call me?"

"Element of surprise?" Neal tried.

"Well, I was surprised," Elizabeth said.

"It's about the case," Neal continued hurriedly. "There's...this thing's...happened."

He heard Elizabeth stifle a giggle, though he wasn't sure why what he'd said was so funny. Peter looked annoyed.

"Sit," he ordered, pointing to the dining room table. Neal sat and waited until Peter had joined him, watching him warily. "This better be good."

Neal inhaled, looking away from Peter's stare. "I took the painting."

Peter groaned. "Dammit, Neal."

"I wasn't gonna -- " Neal stopped when Peter held a hand up, then tried another tack. "I did it for -- "

Peter held up a finger. Neal bit his lip.

"We can use it to catch Dorsett, he doesn't know I work for you," he said in a rush. Peter seemed to consider it. He looked tired. "He called me. He said if I didn't give the painting back he'd hurt Taryn."

That got Peter's attention. Neal glanced at Elizabeth, still standing near the door. 

"We'll set it up tomorrow," Peter said. "Now get the hell out of my house."

Neal stood, but he paused when he pushed the chair back in, leaning on it with both hands.

"Are we ever gonna -- " he began. Peter silenced him with a look. Even standing, leaning over Peter, Neal couldn't disobey.

"What happened last night doesn't ever happen again," Peter told him. Neal looked sidelong at Elizabeth, but she was watching Peter. "You didn't have the right to take that liberty. I shouldn't have let you. I have a responsibility to you and to the government for you. I have a wife, Neal, whom I love."

"Yeah, I know, she's standing..." Neal fell silent when El shook her head at him.

"So I'm not going to let it happen, and you can either get on board or fight me on this and then it's harder on both of us. We understand each other?" Peter asked, looking up at him.

"Yes," Neal said, straightening. "I get it."

"Okay. I'll pick you up tomorrow. Get out."

Neal went, hurrying past Elizabeth but making sure he took the time to wish her goodnight. She caught his arm, rubbed it briefly, gave him a genuine smile, and let him go.

Out on the street he turned to look up at the windows, and saw enough through the drapes to know she'd moved over to where Peter was sitting.

He'd fucked it up. Not Peter and Elizabeth, obviously they'd reached an understanding. He'd fucked up his own friendship with Peter, the chance to be welcome in their home, the chance for Peter's approval. He'd stolen a painting and he'd taken a little bit of what didn't belong to him from Peter, and now he was being punished, and punishment hurt.

Peter said he'd pick him up in the morning, but as he walked to the corner to hail a cab Neal thought what that probably meant was that the Marshals would pick him up in the morning.

Mozzie was still there when he got back to June's place.

"So what'd the Suit say?" he asked, as Neal went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.

"Mozzie, if I ran tonight, how much could we liquidate immediately?" Neal asked.

"That good, huh?" Moz leaned in the doorway.

"No. Nevermind, whatever," Neal said. "He said we could set up another sting tomorrow."

He glanced at the wall safe where the Haustenberg lay, wrapped in soft felt.

"I got work to do," he continued. "You want to hang out while I copy the Haustenberg?"

***

Neal was unusually tractable the next day, still and quiet in the car, cradling the leather bag with the Haustenberg in it with both hands. Peter felt like he was getting a lot of furtive looks, but he ignored them.

"So what happens if it goes off today?" Neal asked, finally. "We get Dorsett, we get the money back. What happens?"

Peter glanced at him. "The bureaucrats get off my back for losing it, the painting goes back to the Channing, and we close the case."

"What happens to me?" Neal asked.

"What do you think? I'm not buying you a steak dinner," Peter said. Neal seemed uneasy now. "We go home, get some sleep, tomorrow we come back and do it all again."

"I'm not..." Neal pressed his lips together, and Peter could almost hear him thinking. "How tenuous is my probation?"

"It's pretty thin," Peter said. "We need this one."

"It's simple, right?"

"Yeah, so don't make it complicated," Peter warned him. "Take Dorsett down quickly."

"If I get him, will you trust me again?" Neal asked, so quickly Peter almost didn't understand the words.

He glanced at Neal. Neal, king of no-consequences, who had spent most of his adult life (and his adult life had started young) in a game where any single misstep meant he had to run, but running meant he never had to pay for the mistakes he made. Neal, who had probably grown up being punished for things he _hadn't_ done.

Now he was learning, and he didn't look like he was enjoying it at all. Still, there was something to be said for consistency. That was part of the lesson too.

"Yeah," Peter said. "When we close the case, we start fresh. New work, clean slate."

There was a little huff of breath from Neal's side of the car, surprised and pleased, and Peter smiled to himself as he pulled into the parking structure at Federal Plaza.

For once, the bust went perfectly. Dorsett showed up, Neal gave the signal, the team went in, and Neal walked away. Peter had a tense moment when they handed the Haustenberg over to the Channing, but if the Channing's guy wasn't going to make a fuss, neither was Peter. He didn't actually know that Neal had forged anything, after all -- hints and suspicions weren't the FBI's business. Proof and testimony was.

***

Neal was becoming acclimated to the fact that Kate did not dominate his every waking moment.

He told himself this was logical; he had to put her out of his head sometimes so that he could survive and find her. She wasn't a direct part of his work for Peter and he didn't want her to be, because when he finally found her they were going to run far away from all this (somehow). He lived in two worlds, an old world and a new one. When he could keep the two spheres from touching, he did.

He made up for it by giving her all his thoughts, when he did have the time and reason to think of her. It felt a little bipolar, but at the same time kind of...good. When he was searching for her, he was singleminded in his quest, and then when he'd done all he could he'd slip back into the new world of Peter and the FBI. He could work easily in the knowledge that after work he could give Kate all of his time. And he could use the self-imposed divide to explain to himself, if no one else, why he sometimes didn't think of her when he should: when he was recovering after the Carruthers shooting, or on the heels of a particularly clever case, or sometimes when he thought about the way Peter had sounded, the night he stole the Haustenberg.

In the moment, when he was thinking of Kate, he was thinking only of Kate. The rest of the time, for his own sanity, he couldn't. At least, that was what he told himself.

He felt like he was following a trail being built only a few feet ahead of him, between the wine bottle map and the letter it led to and the phone call that the letter had warned him to expect. Standing on a windblown street in front of Grand Central Station, he picked up a ringing public phone and found Kate on the other end, and she sounded so perfect and wonderful -- startlingly good to his ears, as if they'd never been apart at all.

Neal was less than an hour out from the Haustenberg case, and he wanted to blurt it all out to her because it was the kind of story she'd like, but of course there were many more important things to say. That he loved her, that he'd save and protect her, that --

Kate wanted to know where his cache was.

"What?" he asked, because he couldn't believe what she was asking.

"The money, the bonds, the art, all of it," she said.

"Why?" he replied, bewildered.

"He wants something," she told him, like he was being stupid. "Something you took, something you hid."

Oh this was fucking _ridiculous_. There was a code of honor even among his kind of thief and he was pretty sure one of the unwritten rules was that you didn't take someone's girl hostage because you wanted a damn painting. In their world, if you weren't good enough to steal the painting yourself, tough luck to you.

"I hid a lot of things," he said, and could hear how hard his voice was, and hated it.

"Well, then, give him everything!" Kate said. "If he gets what he wants, he'll let me come back to you."

"Who is he?" Neal asked. Because when he found this guy he was going to rip his throat out.

"I can't tell you, it's too dangerous for you," Kate said, and she did sound genuinely regretful -- though Kate was smart enough to have given him some kind of code or sign, so why hadn't she? Unless he was missing something.

He barely heard the rest of the conversation. He barely remembered running, trying to get up to the promenade she was calling him from before she vanished, but of course he was too late. Either someone had taken her away or Kate had gone, and she was good at melting into the shadows.

When Mozzie reached him, he was sitting with his back against the promenade railing, fingers laced behind his neck, thinking.

"Well, that was melodramatic," Mozzie said. "Full points for commitment. If you don't win the Emmy you'll have been robbed."

"Shut up, Moz," Neal said.

"No, I mean it, I haven't seen someone do something that stupid since the last time you did something stupid," Moz continued. "You've really got a knack for it. Did it not occur to you that whoever's doing this could be standing nearby with a gun?"

"I don't care," Neal said, aware he sounded petulant. "I was so close. She was right here. Maybe she left a message -- "

"Neal, she didn't leave a message," Moz said, and Neal knew he was right. Kate wouldn't leave evidence behind.

"Fine," he said, and pushed himself to his feet. "No new intel is bad intel."

"Man, you sound like a fed," Moz told him, as they walked away. Neal shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Bad influence," he announced.

"I keep telling you. Next thing you'll be covering up evidence of aliens and telling me you know where Saddam's weapons of mass destruction are," Moz replied. "It's not healthy."

"It's what I gotta do, Moz," Neal replied. He took out his phone, considered it, and then flipped through the address book for Peter's number.

"I thought I told you to take the rest of the day off," Peter said, by way of greeting.

"Yeah, I am," Neal told him, which was mostly true. "I got a question for you, though."

"You don't get a reward for this one, Neal."

"No, I know. I gotta ask -- does the FBI have a log of the things I allegedly stole and/or forged?"

Silence down the line. "Do I want to know why you're asking?"

"Probably not," Neal admitted.

"We have a partial list. I don't even pretend to call it complete."

"Who has access to that?"

"Me, the team, anyone legitimately requesting it for a case investigation," Peter told him.

"What about civilians?"

"Listen, if you want to see your casefile so you can laugh at us -- "

"No, Peter, it's serious," Neal said. "I just need to know who else knows what I may or may not have taken."

Another pause, and then Peter's voice, unamused. "A lot of people know what you took, Neal. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"No," Neal said, heart sinking a little. "No, I'm not in trouble. Just curious."

"Why -- " Peter began, but then there was a scuffling noise and Neal could hear Peter's voice, much fainter now, call _El!_ in remonstration.

"Hi, Neal," Elizabeth said, and Neal smiled a little. "Bored already?"

"I just like to bug him," Neal told her.

"Yeah, I noticed. Hey, we're having a celebration dinner tonight because Peter didn't get fired for losing a hundred thousand dollars. You want to come over? Peter's grilling."

"Guess I'm off probation, huh?"

"What?"

"Nothing. I can't," Neal said, because it wasn't really...right, and because he needed to think about Kate right now.

"You sure? We've got cheesecake."

How did she know he liked -- oh, of course. Peter knew everything. He'd probably found the cheesecake box in the trash after Neal and Kate skipped out early during the gallery scam in '05.

"Thanks, but some other time. I have some business to take care of."

"Bad business?" Elizabeth asked.

"No, just business."

"Well, be good," she told him.

"I always am."

"Slightly worrying," she replied. "Bye, Neal."

"Bye, Elizabeth," he said, though he could hear Peter say in the background _Hey, I wasn't done talking to --_ before she hung up.

Neal and Mozzie went back to June's place and spent the rest of the afternoon brainstorming; what could this invisible guy want, and did Neal even have it? Or did he just want the whole cache, and was playing a game to get it? By the time night fell they'd been going around in circles for hours, and Neal was tired.

"School night," he told Moz, finally. "I gotta get some sleep."

"That's what you get for being a tool of the Man," Moz told him. "I'll do some asking around."

"Thanks, Moz. Seeya tomorrow."

When Mozzie left, Neal took a few deep breaths. He got into bed, closed his eyes, thought of Kate -- and then slept.

And the next morning he didn't think of Kate, because they had a job to do.

***

Neal didn't think that the next case Peter took on was a punishment, exactly. After they'd cleared the air that one evening, Peter was the same as ever, as if the whole thing had never happened. So Neal was pretty sure that the mortgage fraud case wasn't some kind of subtle personal vendetta.

But god, it was so boring. It was nothing but paperwork, hours and hours of reading complicated legal documents and interview transcripts, brushing up on tax and housing law. Cruz and Jones split their time between the paperwork and the Codex case, though Jones assured him that was going nowhere fast and subtly hinted that if Neal knew anyone who could have done it, he could mention a few names.

Neal, buried in documentation, wished he could mention a few names. He didn't know any document forgers who worked pre-17th century with any regularity, and the forgers he did know who worked earlier than that were all painters. None of them had the professional grasp of Latin necessary to fake that much text. They could always have hired someone, he supposed, but that still didn't really ping any one person across his radar.

"Where'd it come from?" he asked Cruz, using a hastily concocted need for caffeine to escape the file work for a while and scuttlebutt with her at the coffee machine. "Where'd you guys find it, I mean."

"Violent Crimes," Cruz told him, pouring herself another cup. "They busted some guy for kidnapping and homicide -- he took someone across state lines and left 'em in a river. When they finally caught him, he had a room full of this stuff. No paperwork, no bills of sale. He said he burned it all."

"A whole room? Like the Codex?" Neal was impressed.

"Yeah, books and paintings mostly. It's all been authenticated now, though they caught a few fakes. Some of the stuff was on the Art Loss registry, some of it he bought legitimately. There's a couple of problem pieces. This one's ours." She gave him a cheery grin.

"Can't you just ask him where he got it?" Neal asked.

"Gee, we didn't think of that, being the feds and all," Cruz drawled. "Yeah, we wanted to, but he hanged himself before we could."

"Wow."

"Mortgage fraud doesn't seem so bad now, does it?" she asked.

"Mortgage fraud is terrible," he told her. "I've never been this bored in my life, and I spent three and a half years in prison."

She smiled. "Can't really blame Agent Burke though. I bet he's tired of people trying to shoot you."

"Not as tired as I am!" Neal protested. "Wait, you think he did this on purpose? To keep me benched?"

"Don't think of it as benched," Cruz told him. "Think of it as a breather."

"I don't need a breather."

"We all need breathers," she said, more serious now. "The job gets to you, even here. Besides, it'll teach you important life lessons," she added, as she turned to go.

"Like what?" he called after her.

"Like patience!" she called back. Neal fumed a little, silently, but he poured himself a fresh cup of coffee and reluctantly went back up the stairs to where Peter was still studying legal disputes.

"This is ridiculous," Neal announced. Peter looked up mildly. "All this paperwork to nail some asshole skimming money from banks."

"This is justice," Peter replied, turning back to the papers. "Sometimes the mills grind slowly -- "

" -- yet they grind exceeding small," Neal sighed. "Yeah. That was God, by the way, not Justice."

"Depends on your definition."

"Of which?"

"Both," Peter replied, setting a file folder aside. "And it was Longfellow."

"Come on, let's find a real case," Neal said.

"I don't find cases, this is the FBI. And this is a real case. Just because it's not interesting to you doesn't mean it's not worth your time."

"Come on, don't tell me you find this interesting." Neal watched for Peter's reaction.

"It's like any case. There are bits..." Peter picked up one file from an arm's-reach away, "...that fit..." he put it under the folder in front of him, "...together."

He added a third folder, and squared them with his fingers. "This is where the flaw is. Somewhere in here. Was that as cool as sneaking into the bedroom of a loan shark's girlfriend and stealing a painting? No, but it's just as important. And just as satisfying."

Neal considered him. Peter did love a puzzle.

"Are you keeping me benched?" he asked. Peter glanced up.

"You shouldn't take everything Cruz says seriously. She likes to fuck with you," he replied.

"I think I know when I'm being fucked with."

"Oh you do, do you?" Peter asked.

"Con man," Neal reminded him, though the barb hit closer than Peter intended. _Not thinking about Kate right now. Work time is now, Kate time is later._

"Fine, wiseass," Peter said, and tossed the three folders across the table. "Find me the flaw and I promise the next case we take you can run all over and get shot at again to your heart's content."

"You're too good to me," Neal told him, but he took the files and stood to leave. "I'm going home, I'll review them there."

"Text me if you find anything," Peter said, head already bent back to the piles of paperwork, slowly putting them in order. Neal sighed and went to get his jacket.

***

One of the FBI's profilers had once asked Peter if he could come in on the Caffrey case for a little while, back when Neal was still at large. They had a fairly thorough idea of how Neal operated by then, but there wasn't any harm in letting some new eyes see the case, as long as it was understood that Caffrey still belonged to Peter. The profiler had gone through the casefile, studied the puzzles Neal had left, and given Peter an unreadable look when he walked into the room for the formal presentation.

The final result was a strange portrait. The profile said that Neal Caffrey styled himself a sensitive artist, but was in effect a thug; he wouldn't hesitate to use brute force when subtlety wouldn't work, and he was very likely a sociopath. He used and discarded people as needed, including close associates, and also felt free to use sex as a tool to both obtain his goals and control and dominate his partners, though he probably got little satisfaction out of it himself.

Peter didn't think Neal was a sociopath, and he knew he wasn't a thug, even then. Their association since had only proved that. Neal cared about the people in his life; Peter knew Neal's idea of Kate was a fairy-tale, but he did still really believe he loved her, and she wasn't the only person he'd stuck his neck out for. As for sex...Neal could use sex appeal to get what he wanted, but he didn't seem to treat it as either a last resort or a primary tool. The idea of Neal using sex to dominate anyone was a little funny; when he had to, Neal dominated through charm or a display of superior skill, but he wasn't actually all that interested in the idea to start with.

Later, Hughes had called Peter into his office and given him the private side of the profile: that the profiler thought Peter was dangerously co-dependent on Neal to define him as an FBI agent, that Peter was beginning to identify with his prey, and that his headlong pursuit of a relatively minor criminal was detrimental to his mental health. Hughes thought it was funny.

"Hey Burke," he grinned, as Peter studied the notes in horror. "Don't listen to the headshrinkers. They're used to serial killers. People who choose to spend their lives chasing down monsters are already unbalanced. If I think you're burning out, _I'll_ make that call. I don't see it, though."

Four years on, Peter agreed that most of the profile was bullshit, but he was beginning to wonder about one or two things. Neal was probably detrimental to his mental health. He certainly drove him crazy.

Like calling in the middle of the night, when Peter was already half-asleep. He grabbed his phone off the bedside table, dislodging El in the process, and answered it blearily when he saw it was Neal. El reached around him to turn on the lamp.

"Very clever," Neal said, sounding only mildly annoyed.

"What's that?" Peter asked, rubbing his eyes.

"There's this old story that a kid went to his wealthy older relative and said he needed money to buy a car. The older relative gave him a Bible and said, read this Bible, and when you're done come back to me and I'll write you the check."

"Uh-huh," Peter grunted.

"So the kid goes away and doesn't read the Bible, but he comes back in a month and says okay, I read it. And his wealthy older relative says, no you didn't. Go back and read it. The kid goes away again, doesn't read it again, they go through this two more times. Finally, the older relative says, bring me the Bible. The kid gives it to him, and he opens it to the last chapter, and there's a check for the money tucked between the pages."

"I always thought that was a really annoying story," Peter told him.

"Me too," Neal drawled. "Which is why I find it perplexing that on the second to last page of the last report you gave me, there's a post-it note telling me where to look to solve this case."

Peter chuckled. "You solve it?"

"You're a smug bastard, Peter," Neal said, which meant yes.

"Keeps me entertained," Peter told him. "Neal?"

"Yeah, what?"

"Have a look at HG Wells sometime. _The Lost Inheritance_. Get the real story."

"Reality is just what the majority believes. Have a look at Snopes sometime. _The Spurned Graduation Gift_. Join the twenty-first century."

Peter smiled. "Goodnight, Neal."

"Night, Peter," Neal said, and hung up. Next to him, El rolled over and grinned.

"Neal?" she asked.

"Yep."

"He in trouble?"

"No," Peter said, stretching. "I'm making sure he stays busy."

"Sounds like you're annoying him."

"With Neal, they're sometimes the same thing," Peter told her, reaching out to turn off the bedside lamp.

***

Their next case, as Peter had promised, was everything Neal liked: intrigue, secret codes, bait-and-switches, cons to figure out, and beautiful women. He wished it had been art forgery instead of money laundering, but you couldn't have everything.

On the other hand, multiple people pointed guns at him, and the NYPD tried to kill him. Mozzie made him watch _Tiles Of Fire_ (and _Tiles Of Fire II: Child Of The Tiles_ ).

It was also a case with a dead body, the dead body of an FBI agent. Neal didn't know him, but that hardly mattered; he knew he'd inadvertently bought into the whole fraternity-of-officers thing when he felt sick and furious looking at Costa's body.

It could have been worse. There wasn't much sign of how he'd died. Still, Costa had been stuffed in a freezer and his body was folded the way no body should ever be. Frost on his cheeks and nose, head tilted at an unnatural angle -- Peter kept standing there staring, but Neal had to look away.

It was a hard case. They made it, and that made Peter happy, but Neal wasn't happy. Making a case didn't mean much; Meilin wouldn't give him what he really wanted, the lead on Kate, and...

And there was no triumph in putting someone away for murder. You could give a painting back if you found it, or you could stop someone from melting down priceless cultural artifacts. There was something to fix. At the end of the day, he couldn't return Mark Costa to his family. Not how they wanted him back, anyway.

Over Chinese food that night, ostensibly celebrating their win, there came a point where it was just him and Peter at the table, and Neal finally let the façade of good cheer at a good case drop just a little. Peter sat back and looked at him, fingers still toying with his fork.

"There's no easy way to say it," he said. "Neal, you got suckered."

He could have argued the point, but why bother? "Yeah, I know," Neal said.

"You got suckered by Interpol, and you're better than that."

"Peter -- "

"But," Peter continued, "Part of that's my fault."

Neal watched him. Peter carefully speared a dumpling, bit off half, and set the other half down on his plate. He swallowed and washed it down with tea.

"Most of the time we're in your world more than mine," Peter said. "You took years to learn what you know. It's good to know, it's helpful to me. This time you were playing a game with the big boys in my world and you don't know enough about it to do that."

Neal frowned. "What world are we talking?"

"Departmental politics. International criminal law. These things work on chatter and gossip and you have to have contacts."

"Doesn't sound so different from what I do," Neal pointed out.

"No...except here you have no contacts, and you don't know where to listen for the chatter."

"That's not my fault -- "

"I know that. That's what I'm telling you," Peter said. He sounded annoyed. Neal kept silent. "We weren't ready for this because I didn't know she'd be Interpol, but dammit, Neal, I can't teach you these things if you don't tell me when they happen. You want to play games with other agencies, fine, I'll back you up, it might even do the Bureau some good. But you don't play games with me."

Neal dropped his eyes to his plate. "Yeah, okay," he said quietly. He glanced up quickly; Peter was watching him. He looked down again.

"Something's bugging you about this case," Peter said, refilling their tea cups. "You think we missed something?"

Neal shook his head.

"You pissed Meilin screwed you?"

"Well, yeah," Neal drawled.

"But?"

Neal chewed on his lip.

"It's messed up, what happened to Costa," he said finally. He heard Peter's fork click against his plate. "That's all. It's messed up. I don't like murder cases."

"I don't take murder cases," Peter said. Neal rubbed his face and sat back. "We didn't know he was dead when we took it. It wouldn't have gone to us anyway if you hadn't had a good alias for it. Still, we deal with dangerous people, Neal. Sometimes people get killed. You might not like it but it's the world you picked."

"If you tell me to get used to it -- "

"No," Peter said. "You get acclimated to it. Desensitized. You never get used to it. Anyway, you never said how you got on Interpol's radar," he added. He was casually pushing food around on his plate. Peter Burke was never going to win awards for his ability to subtly change the topic.

"Well, I made a checklist," Neal said. "All the big criminal agencies. I was working my way down the list, it's my road to fame. CIA was next if you guys didn't catch me."

Peter snorted. "Neal."

"I...may, at one point, have been reported to be in Japan," Neal said. "And when I was allegedly sighted there, it may have been in the company of unsavory characters who were later suspected of smuggling stolen property out of the country."

"Huh," Peter said.

"What?"

"I hate Interpol."

"Peter, what was 'huh' about?"

Peter shrugged. "We have a file a foot thick on you. There's about fifteen months missing where you just disappeared completely. We queried other agencies, got headshakes back. Things begin to make sense. When was this?"

"Aw, Peter, come on," Neal said. "If I was there, which nobody can prove, I'd have spent most of my time on a beach on Kyushu, getting a tan."

"Uh-huh," Peter said.

"It's not important to your files," Neal told him. "I swear."

Which was true; the job had been minor. He'd gone to Japan as a favor to Alex, because some buddy of hers needed a forger onsite. They'd flown him there first class. He did the job, he got ready to go home, and then he dropped off the map without a word of warning.

Fifteen months later, by way of Hungary, France, and Ireland, he came back to the States...with Kate.

Alex had really never forgiven him for that.

Peter gave him a skeptical look, but he let the matter drop. Or rather, he let the matter drop with Neal; Neal had no doubt someone at Interpol was going to get their ass chewed for this, and pretty soon that fifteen-month gap in Peter's files would be a lot smaller.

***

It felt, after that case, like a crisis had come and gone. Neal knew where he stood with Peter, and he thought he could sketch the exact dimensions of how much he could get away with, how much leeway Peter would give him before the chain choked him back. After seeing Costa's body, Neal was grateful even for the chain. He wasn't proud of that, but it was what was true: the rules Peter laid down, that he had pushed so hard against at first, were now keeping him safe. Safe from the Bad Guys, safe from the rest of the FBI, safe from himself, at times. He still pushed just a little, now and then, mostly to fuck with Peter, perhaps a little bit to make sure Peter was still watching. Peter was always watching.

The morning that the Heart Of Earth was stolen, Neal was in a mood to screw around; he'd been brainstorming with Mozzie about who at the FBI could possibly have Kate, and he didn't feel...he didn't feel settled, he felt very unsettled, like he wasn't quite living in his own skin. Making Peter make that "I'm this close to handcuffing you to something" face would ground him, remind him of the order of his world.

"What do you know about exotic diamonds?" Peter asked, as he joined him on the streetcorner down the block from Les Joyaux Précieux.

"Exotic isn't a classification for gemstones," Neal told him. "Weight, clarity, fire, cut...price...but not exoticism."

"The boutique says they're displaying the world's most exotic pink diamond," Peter said. Neal grinned.

"The Heart Of Earth?" he asked.

"You tell me."

"It's the name for a 42-karat platinum-set pear-cut pink diamond, supposedly mined in Canada," Neal said. "Exotic is pure marketing bullshit. It's like the Koh-i-Noor. It's got a history, so they sell the history. Would you rather see a big diamond, or an _exotic_ one?"

Peter frowned at him. "You know a lot about it," he said.

"I ran with a...gemstone enthusiast for a while," Neal told him. "Diamonds aren't really my thing."

"They are today," Peter said, pushing open the door of the boutique.

Diamonds were good commodities and easy to move, which made them tempting targets for any thief, but when Neal handled gemstones they were either small time or fake. Big, noticeable ones like the Heart Of Earth really weren't in his line. He wouldn't mind getting his hands on the real thing just to see it, to hold it, but he wouldn't especially put himself out to do so. And the one he handled that morning wasn't real anyway. The proprietor of Les Joyaux looked horrified when he announced it; Peter looked resigned.

They left Jones and Cruz to do mop-up, interviews, alibis, the boring stuff Neal was so glad as a consultant he mostly got to avoid. In the car on the way to Federal Plaza, Peter rubbed his cheek with his thumb thoughtfully, an unconscious gesture Neal had noticed before.

"Tell me about the Heart Of Earth," he said finally. "Why's it so exotic?"

"Plenty of reasons," Neal said. "Nobody knows where it came from, not really. They think Canada, probably near the Snap Lake vein. It turned up in Canada first, anyway."

"That hardly sounds exotic," Peter drawled.

"They found it in the stomach of an unknown man who'd been shot in a bar in Yellowknife in 1902," Neal said.

"That makes it creepy, but not exotic."

"It wasn't cut then. There are photographs of it in its raw state. It was shaped like a heart. The doctor who found it decided finders-keepers and sold it for a fortune to an anonymous buyer, who sent it to Belgium to be cut," Neal said, warming to the story. "They spent a year studying it and finally cut it down to...well, that, and set it in a tiara for a famous French ballet dancer and courtesan."

"Slightly more exotic," Peter allowed.

"She wore it for years onstage and off, until she had it taken out and set in the handle of a revolver." Neal grimaced; no good for a diamond or a revolver. Peter, he saw, was thinking likewise. "She gave it to a lover, departing for Egypt, as a good luck charm."

"He must've been some lover."

" _She_ was, by all accounts," Neal corrected. Peter lifted an eyebrow. "It disappeared for a while, along with the lover, and turned up in a private collection in South Africa. The lover never turned up."

"Not very lucky."

"It gets better. The diamond surfaces again on a list of missing items after the collector was strangled to death in a robbery. Rumor says the Italians had it during World War II, but then someone took it out of the revolver and it was found in a box of geology samples from Argentina, in a museum in China."

"How'd they know it was the same diamond?"

"There's no other 42-karat pink pear-cut in the world," Neal scoffed.

"That we know of."

"Well, assume for the sake of narrative convenience it's the same. The museum couldn't afford the security necessary for the diamond, so they offered to sell it back to the Canadian government, but the First Nations cut a deal with China first and half the fee went to the Tłįchǫ people, who own a lot of mines in the area the diamond supposedly came from."

"Say that again?"

"Tłįchǫ," Neal said. "Seriously, Peter, there's a whole country like three hours north of here -- "

"The diamond," Peter prompted.

"The diamond ends up back in Canada, having literally traveled the world, and Canada asks a Tłįchǫ jeweler to set it for display. There's some argument about what the Canadian Government wanted him to do with it but, after he set it in the platinum necklace, the government refused to pay the full commission. There was a fifteen-day showdown between the government, threatening to come in and confiscate it, and the Tłįchǫ, who said the hell you will."

"What happened?" Peter asked.

"Someone stole it," Neal said with a grin. "Or the Tłįchǫ jeweler fenced it, whatever you want to believe. The buyer held onto it for a good ten years before willing it back to the government when he died, on condition they pay the full worth of the work to the Tłįchǫ. The Canadians got their gemstone, the Tłįchǫ got paid, and the diamond ended up in the Royal Ontario Museum. From there to here...and now stolen again."

"You know an awful lot about this," Peter said, as they pulled into the parking structure.

"It's a great story. I was rooting for the Tłįchǫ, personally," Neal remarked.

"You think they might have taken it?"

"Nah. Why steal it? It's worth more to them on display, and legally they've sold it. What are they going to do with it?"

"What would you do with it?" Peter asked. Neal was silent while they waited for the elevator up to the office. Once they were in and the door shut behind them, Neal tapped a finger against his lips.

"I'd put it on and sing _I Feel Pretty_ ," he said. Peter gave him a momentarily outraged look; Neal grinned, and Peter dissolved into laughter.

"Fine, okay. Ask a stupid question. Anyway, our job is to get it back," Peter said, and began going over the case out loud. Neal didn't need the information -- he had, actually, been there for the case to date -- but sometimes Peter needed to talk, and if he didn't talk to Neal he'd probably talk to the empty elevator, which would make him look kinda crazy.

Neal felt good. He felt useful, and he loved figuring out how things like this were pulled.

And then came Garrett Fowler.

Fowler made his skin crawl on sight; he was a petty bully and he put Peter on edge. And even though Neal had been good -- he'd stayed out of trouble, he'd stayed at Peter's side like he was supposed to -- he ended up in prison.

Peter might tell him to keep quiet, he might cuff Neal's hands in front of him to save him the humiliation of perp-walking out of the building in front of his friends, and he might have trusted Neal enough to know Neal wouldn't slip or pick the cuffs. But Peter couldn't protect him from OPR, and it was a shock to suddenly find that Peter, too, was powerless in the face of some things.

He looked on it as a test. If he wanted to go back to Peter -- if he wanted the resources he needed to find Kate -- he had to have proof not only of who was after him, to satisfy Peter, but of who did the heist, to satisfy Peter's enemies.

In order to get that, he had to get out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
>  **[Retribution](http://www.theotherpages.org/poems//2000/l/long52.html)** , by Longfellow  
>  **[The Spurned Graduation Gift](http://www.snopes.com/religion/gradgift.asp)**  
>  **[The official website of the Tłįchǫ Nation](http://www.tlicho.ca/)**


	4. Chapter 4

Elizabeth Burke was unused to abetting felons. It just wasn't something she did.

Once in a while, since the...thing, whatever it was that had happened between Peter and Neal, she stopped and tried to examine herself for jealousy or anger, but she never found any. She felt like there ought to be some; she would never tolerate being second to anyone in Peter's life. But she loved Peter, too, and didn't see why some 'thing' should upset the life they had together, especially since it was Neal. She liked Neal a lot, but in her mental filing system he was marked under 'Peter's Work' which was a vague, handwavey sort of area that she didn't pry into very often. He told her about cases, of course, but she told him about her work too, and it wasn't like he ended up fascinated by prosciutto-wrapped melon balls.

So it wasn't that she minded helping Neal flee from the law and reach a safe place where he could talk to Peter. Neal mattered, and Peter was being an idiot about him. It was just that she wasn't used to it.

Neal had given her a signal -- two rings on their home phone and then a hangup -- and when he gave the signal she knew what she had to do. She took a plate of cookies and a jug of milk and some glasses out to the car where two agents were sitting, watching her home. She made conversation about the weather, about crap surveillance details (Peter had done enough of those in his time) and other things for almost half an hour. She didn't see Neal, and she was beginning to wonder what had happened, but when she finally gave up and went back inside to the kitchen he was there, head in the fridge, a pile of food already out on the counter.

"What are you _doing?_ " she asked.

"Hi! I was starting to worry about you," he said, giving her the biggest grin she'd ever seen. Neal was good at those. "What took you so long?"

"I was watching for you," she said.

"I'm stealthy," he told her, pulling a very sober face. "Do you have any Gruyere?"

"Who wants to know?" she asked, putting a hand on her hip. "Seriously, Neal, what are you doing?"

"Making you dinner," Neal said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. _Because that's what you do, isn't it, when you're a fugitive from justice hiding out in the kitchen of your chief pursuer. You make dinner._ "Well, you and Peter. And Satchmo!" he crooned, as the dog pushed into the kitchen to see what the fuss was about. He bent over and ruffled the dog's ears lovingly. "Yes, Satchmo likes soufflé, don't you Satchmo?"

"You're making a soufflé," Elizabeth said.

"Yeah, it's like the one thing I can cook," Neal told her, releasing Satchmo and turning back to the eggs sitting on the counter.

"The one thing you can cook is a soufflé?"

"Well, and soup. Girls love soufflé," Neal said, hands drifting over the food as if he were going down a mental checklist.

"I can imagine," El said sardonically. "Gruyere's in the deli drawer."

"Great. So," Neal added, as he rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands, "how's life?"

"Oh, you know," she said, waving a hand. "Work. Book club. Accessory to...what is it they call this, anyway?"

"Escape and Other Offenses Related to Custody," Neal told her, digging in a cupboard for a bowl. "Actually in this case it might be Absconding. Either way, you're not an accessory."

"What am I?" she asked. Neal shot her a smile over his shoulder.

"Hindering Prosecution."

"This soufflé had better be mind-blowing," she told him. Neal winked at her, loading measuring cups into the bowl.

"It will be. Besides, you've got Peter on your side. He wouldn't let you go to jail." Neal dropped the bowl on the counter -- less gracefully than he meant to, she thought -- and rested a hand on the rim. He looked, suddenly, very shaken and very young. She opened her mouth to say something, but before she could he was turning away, measuring milk out into a glass cup and pouring it into a saucepan on the stove.

"Aren't you going to ask me if I did it?" he asked lightly, switching the burner on.

"You're not that dumb," El told him. Neal looked up. "On the one hand, I guess it would be funny to pull a big heist right under Peter's nose."

"But?" he asked.

"But you're not that dumb," she repeated. "Why risk everything you have for something boring like a diamond? You don't need the money and you don't need the thrill. If you were going to pull something, you'd have a reason beyond greed, and you'd set it up outside Manhattan."

Neal looked down at the saucepan. "Peter thinks I did it. I knew too much about it, sounded like I'd been studying it. Should've played dumb."

"Peter doesn't have the luxury of trusting you that much," she replied.

"And you do?" he asked. "After everything?"

"Well, you're not my consultant," she said, deliberately misinterpreting. "I wouldn't trust you alone in a room with a Van Gogh, but I trust you not to be a bonehead. Peter would too, if he had his head on straight."

That got a smile out of him, which was pleasing. Neal was handsome when he smiled -- well, he was handsome all the time, but she especially liked it when he smiled. In the pan, the milk began to hiss.

"So where'd you learn to cook soufflé?" she asked. "Paris?"

"Y...." he paused. "No. Though it's a good story, isn't it? Some old man in Paris taught me. That's what I told Kate," he added, looking vaguely guilty.

"What's the truth?"

"Boring," Neal said. "I was stuck in a safe house in Lake Tahoe for two weeks with a French cookbook and nothing better to do. I never went to Paris until after I met Kate. We weren't there long. I liked it, though."

He was quiet for a while. El cleared her throat.

"Peter said you jumped out of a fourth floor window," she said. "Onto the awning of a bakery."

"The Greatest Cake," he murmured, grinning.

"He said he saw you do it."

Neal nodded. It looked like he enjoyed the idea.

"He said it was the most terrifying thing he'd ever seen," El said.

Neal flinched, his hand knocking against the milk-pan. "Ow, fuck," he said, shaking it. El rolled her eyes. "What?"

"Misdirection doesn't work on me, I've been married to a fed for ten years," she said. Neal looked sheepish. "You scared him, Neal."

"He didn't look scared," Neal said. "He looked pissed."

"Because he was scared. Maybe you are kinda dumb," she told him.

"Hey!"

"I don't think he really believes you did it," she continued. "He's trying to catch you with wanted posters."

Neal didn't reply, momentarily busy adding butter and pepper to the pan. When he was done, he carried it to the bowl, dumped out the remaining measuring cups, and began mixing other ingredients into it.

"You think he'll listen to me?" he asked as he stirred -- brisk, efficient, practiced.

"Depends on whether you tell him the truth," she replied. Satchmo, who had been watching the cooking with interest, now inched back towards El and whined softly. "I need to take Satch out. Stay here and try not to steal anything."

"Scout's honor," he told her. She was almost through the door when he added, "Elizabeth."

She turned.

"Thank you. This means a lot to me."

"What was I going to do, turn you in?" she asked, smiling.

***

It was, without a doubt, the most ridiculous goddamn dinner of Peter's existence.

Neal hadn't stolen the diamond, which was a relief. Fowler or some of his goons had been in Peter's house, which was incredibly creepy and violating. Neal had cooked them dinner, which was just weird. It was the most amazing soufflé Peter had ever eaten, which was a whole different area of weird.

But all that aside, it was disturbing to be sitting at his dining room table, with his wife, eating this amazing food, while Neal sat on the floor and ate with his back to the book-case, occasionally fending off an inquisitive Satchmo. Peter had told him to get up and come to the table, but Neal said he didn't want to take any more risks than necessary, and he wasn't in eyeline of any of the windows where he was. He looked like possibly the corner of the dining room was the only place he felt safe, so eventually Peter left him to it.

Neal talked, though. In a whisper, but he talked. He talked about Lake Tahoe, where he'd been hiding out after some heat came down on his alleged crew for allegedly forging poker chips in Las Vegas. He asked El about the event she was working when he interrupted her day. He argued with Peter about where Jones and Cruz should look next on the Codex case, which kept hitting dead ends.

And, once dinner was done, he sat there and poured his fucking heart out, which made Peter feel like a complete dick for thinking Neal could have stolen the diamond. Neal had been trying to find the woman he loved, he was finally admitting to Peter just how hard he'd been trying, and Peter wished at once that he could apologize and that he could shake Neal till his teeth rattled.

It wasn't like Peter couldn't relate. If someone took Elizabeth from him, he'd start shooting and he wouldn't stop until he found her. It was just that Peter felt unaccountably as if Kate didn't _deserve_ that much devotion, when for all he knew she was a perfectly nice woman and Neal had every reason to be insane when it came to her. Still...if Elizabeth were kidnapped and held for ransom against some unknown mystery object, Peter was also relatively confident Elizabeth would be at least halfway to saving herself by the time she heard him shooting.

Could it be so simple, that Fowler was crooked and Fowler had Kate? Fowler was undoubtedly crooked, but Peter had a hard time believing that all the little puzzle pieces came together to form that picture. Besides, why would Neal have anything a bent Fed would want? There were much easier ways for men in Fowler's position to make money than extorting it out of art forgers.

When this was over...not until then, not until Neal was safely back at the Bureau, exonerated and under his eye for good...then he would make a few inquiries. Fowler was slick but sloppy. It was entirely possible he was using Bureau resources to hide Kate.

He'd deal with that later. Now, Neal had gone off to wherever he was hiding, and it was time to sleep. There would be time tomorrow to kick a little ass.

"Where's Neal?" El asked, when Peter walked into the bedroom. She was sitting up, working on her laptop; he leaned over it to give her a kiss.

"Gone. He'll be in touch," he said, holding up the burner phone Neal had given him.

"You boys work everything out?"

Peter nodded. "He's been chasing Kate. More than I thought. Do you ever -- " he started, and then stopped. El looked up.

"Do I ever what?" she asked.

"Neal should've stayed here tonight. I almost asked him; I can keep him safe. Do you ever think maybe I tell you too much? You're in this deep now too, El."

She cocked her head. "You think he didn't stay because he thought it would be dangerous for me?"

"I think I didn't ask him to because I thought it would be dangerous for you."

"That's very sweet, and a little bit not your business," she told him. "If I wanted Neal out of the house I'd have said so."

"I should've left him in supermax," Peter grumbled.

"Think how much less interesting life would be without Neal," El said. "Besides, I kinda liked having a hot guy cook me dinner."

"A hot -- !" Peter glared at her. "What am I?"

"Hmm," she said, tugging him close with two fingers in the collar of his shirt. "When was the last time you cooked me dinner? _Not_ something over open flame."

She had a point.

"Soon as this case is over, four courses," he said.

"Liar."

"Hand to God." Peter slid into the bed, shoving her over. She laughed.

"I'm going to make you invite Neal," she said. "I want witnesses. Neal and Yvonne. They'd make a cute couple, I think."

"Yvonne's a catering specialist. You think she goes for convicted felons?"

"You think anyone's immune to those big blue eyes?"

Peter closed her laptop, reaching across her to set it on the bedside table. He leaned into her, kissing her temple.

"Jealous?" she asked, but one of her hands was already resting on the back of his head, rubbing circles in his scalp. Peter kept kissing her, and didn't reply.

***

They beat Fowler, of course. Neal knew Peter didn't like to call it "winning", and nobody ever really won against OPR apparently, but Neal counted it as a win. Neal always won. The only time he hadn't won was the time Peter caught him, and since he was working with Peter, he figured they always would win. Nice to know the only guy in the room who was better than you had your back. Besides, Peter had only been better than him twice. (Catching someone who was wearing a tracking anklet didn't count.) Neal had been better than Peter like fifteen times.

He was still high on the win two days later, working leads with Jones and Cruz on the Codex, when Peter pulled him aside, into his office.

"Okay, four things," Peter said. Neal frowned. "One, I'm cooking dinner for El tomorrow night and you have to come because two, El told me you had to. Three, her friend Yvonne is going to be there but four, it was _not my idea_ to set you up with Yvonne so just go and play nice and I promise I will make it up to you."

"I think that was five things," Neal said, but his heart stopped racing quite so hard. Usually when Peter talked that fast it was because one or both of them was in trouble.

"Neal!"

"Fine, okay, dinner," Neal said, holding up his hands. "Jeez, a home-cooked meal with people I like, twist my arm already. Wait, can you cook?"

"Find out," Peter told him.

Peter could cook, of course he could cook, because it was Peter. It wasn't the four-course meal that Elizabeth claimed he'd promised, but it was good and there was a lot of food. Neal put on his best behavior: brought wine, wore one of Byron's more subdued suits, complimented Elizabeth, charmed Yvonne. It wasn't hard. Yvonne was nice. While Peter was clearing the plates away and Elizabeth was getting the coffee, he ended up sitting at the dining room table, head bent close to Yvonne's, explaining the intricacies of inventory fraud. Which, as an events planner, was something she should know in case someone tried to pull it on her, or in case she ever needed the extra cash.

"If you try it on Elizabeth, though, she'll sic Peter on you," he added. Yvonne laughed.

"And he caught you, right?" she asked, as Peter elbowed through the kitchen door, carrying coffee cups. Neal glanced up at him.

"Yeah, he did," he said. Peter lifted an eyebrow, but he was distracted by Satchmo, scratching at the back door.

"I'll take him out," Neal volunteered, giving Yvonne a grin and standing up. He unlatched the door, stepped outside into the crisp chilly air, and shoved his hands in his pockets while Satchmo gave the garden what was apparently a ritual nightly once-over. After a few minutes, Peter stepped out too.

"El wanted to gossip with Yvonne," he said, by way of explanation.

"This is very 1950's dinner party," Neal told him.

"I thought you liked the Rat Pack."

"I do," Neal said, grinning. "Thanks."

"We're glad you came. You and Yvonne seemed to hit it off," Peter added.

"Sure, why not? Makes the evening more fun. And it's not you shoving me off on a gallery agent this time," Neal added. Peter looked like he was fighting a grin. Neal leaned against his shoulder, companionably.

"You enjoying the downtime after the diamond heist?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, I guess I am," Neal said. "It was weird."

"Being in prison again?"

"Nah, after that...I get so used to knowing that you know where I am," Neal said. He really should have some of his coffee, the wine was clearly making him stupid. "When the anklet was off, it felt strange. I felt cut loose."

"But you didn't run."

Neal snorted. "Where the hell would I run?"

"Lake Tahoe," Peter told him solemnly. Neal laughed and pressed his forehead to Peter's shoulder. "You shoulda stayed here that night."

"You should've asked."

"I thought it would be dangerous for El."

"What'd she say to that?" Neal asked. Peter smelled...really, so good.

"She said it wasn't any of my business, and if she wanted you out of the house she'd tell me so."

Neal inhaled, leaning closer. "I could stay tonight."

He could feel Peter tense, but otherwise he didn't move. Neal nuzzled against his throat, under his ear. "You'd know where I am. I'd belong somewhere -- "

Peter moved suddenly, not violently but quick -- he stepped aside, caught Neal from stumbling by the shoulder, and got his other hand up against Neal's chin. His fingers were spread across Neal's throat, thumb pressing into the soft space under his jawbone. No pressure, just presence.

"No," Peter said.

Neal didn't move. He didn't dare. The chain had just snapped very, very tight.

"My wife is fifteen feet away," Peter said, still holding him, lifting his chin just slightly with pressure from his thumb. Neal fought down a whine. "There are a million reasons this is a bad idea and she's the first thousand."

"She could -- " Neal started, but Peter's thumb pressed again and he snapped his jaw shut.

"You can't make what we do about this, Neal," he said. "I know where you are. You do belong somewhere. You have to be happy with that."

He let go, slowly. Neal lowered his chin -- lowered his eyes, looked down at where Satchmo was snuffling the back wall of the garden.

"I know all the reasons," he said.

"Good," Peter said.

"I think it'd be easier if you just said you didn't swing that way," Neal told him, feeling sullen. For a moment he'd felt complete -- happy -- in that empty-headed peaceful place...

But, he realized, it hadn't been the brief second that Peter had let him take a liberty. It had been that first beautiful moment when Peter's hand had closed gently around his throat.

Oh, he was so screwed.

"Get some air," Peter told him. "I'll be inside."

Neal nodded, watching him go.

***

The next morning, it was as if nothing had happened, which Neal was catching onto now: new day, new case, clean slate. He'd taken his licks for trying to take advantage, and that was that. It was a relief, because he didn't want to rehash what he'd done, and he was perhaps more ashamed of what he'd implicitly admitted. The plan had always been to get Kate safe and then bolt, but with the cover of darkness and the excuse of too much wine he'd in essence told Peter that he wanted -- that he craved -- some place to belong.

He'd never wanted to belong anywhere. Or rather, he'd never seen anywhere he'd found worth sticking to, unless you counted Kate. Or...

He leaned back at his desk, chewing on the end of his pen. Or he'd just assumed there was nowhere meant for him, so why bother looking.

But Peter had told him he already belonged --

"Caffrey?"

He looked up; Cruz was waving a hand in front of his face.

"Yeah, what?" he said, looking back and forth from her to Jones. "What'd I miss, what?"

"Detention for daydreaming," Jones told him, shaking his head.

"Aw, cut me some slack, I'm hung over," Neal said, tipping his head back, playing it up for sympathy.

"Nice for some," Cruz replied, utterly unsympathetic. "Look, all our leads are dead-ends and I got nowhere else to dig. You sure you don't know anyone who could have done the Codex?"

"I told you, none of the people I know do this kind of work," Neal said, snapping his chair forward and leaning over the high-res print of the Codex on his desk.

"What if it's someone new?" Jones asked.

"Then we're up shit creek," Cruz said.

Neal shook his head. "This isn't a practice piece. Nobody's this good their first time out. This guy's had training."

"Where do you learn this kind of thing?" Cruz asked. "Art history? Classics programs?"

"What, you're gonna canvass every art history department in the country?" Jones said. Cruz shrugged.

"Not the kind of thing you learn in school," Neal murmured thoughtfully. An idea was cracking open in his head. He nudged at it. "This is the kind of thing you learn by doing. We're looking at this wrong," he said, turning the page sideways as if that was going to help. "Shouldn't have looked at content. It's always style..."

"How do you mean?" Jones asked.

"Newly discovered document says he didn't want to steal the original, or set up a fake grab and claim he'd swapped a forgery for the real thing," Neal said, more to himself than to them. "Meticulous work, but the smear where we caught him says he gets sloppy towards the end. Not as much discipline as he'd like to think. Sale to a cheap private collector with no visible middleman says he has no contacts. Fabricated text says he likes to get creative. I told you, no discipline," he repeated, looking up at Jones and Cruz. They both looked faintly puzzled. "You're right, he's new, but he's had a good teacher."

"So we're looking for, what, an apprentice?" Cruz asked.

"Kinda," Neal agreed. "And this won't be the only thing he's done since. Lemme check around. I know a few people who might call this their style. I'll see if any of them have been taking on students lately."

"Less work for us," Jones said. "You need anything?"

"Just time," Neal said absently, pulling the keyboard close.

He was halfway through a new workup before he realized he'd just voluntarily done paperwork. Before calling Moz or going to any of his other sources, he'd sat at his desk and written a profile so that when he did go to Moz his report would be square in the database.

" _So_ screwed," he muttered to himself.

***

Still, time passed, and cases came and went. They landed a couple of big fish, which was actually pretty satisfying. Neal liked solving cases, or at least he liked figuring out the other guy's angle.

What he didn't like was feeling like a mark, and the more time he spent chasing the Music Box the more like a mark he felt. He spent more time than he should have deliberately not thinking about Kate. He ended up talking a lot with June, who always looked tired now because Samantha was getting sicker. Frankly they made a hell of a pair, but it was nice to sit with someone who understood -- both his life and his inability to fix the broken things in it.

Which was probably the reason she eventually brought her problem to him: she knew he understood, and knew he'd try to help. She also knew Neal would be as furious as she was that someone had kicked Samantha off the donor list and then tried to extort a hundred thousand dollars from her for a kidney. June had a hundred grand easy, but June didn't like being scammed. It was a con thing.

All of this seemed important to him at one time. Obviously it had been important enough to make him break into a medical clinic looking for records of the scam. It had seemed important right up to the moment they tied him down and shot him full of sedatives, and then for a while nothing at all was very important.

There was something he was supposed to be doing, he was sure of that. He was definitely supposed to be doing something. Somewhere. Wasn't he? Only the last time he'd been on a gurney, he'd been shot, not shot up, but it was almost the same, right? Then Peter had told him not to worry, that Peter was taking care of things, so maybe this time Peter would take care of things. Peter was good at that.

He lay there, drifting, fingers idly picking the restraints on the bed. Easier than handcuffs. Peter had handcuffs. Not for Neal, though, 'cause Peter knew he could pick them. Sometime, somewhere, Peter had yelled at him about something and put zipties on his wrists. Those hurt. These didn't hurt. Nothing hurt.

Someone was singing, somewhere. That was nice.

He tried thinking about Kate, and even that didn't hurt, though every time he grabbed the strand of his thoughts about her it slipped away again. He'd been thinking about something. Kate? Didn't hurt. What had he been --

"Neal?"

Neal, with great effort, tipped his head up. Peter. Well, naturally. Peter took care of things.

"Hi!" Neal said, gleeful. He'd just been thinking about something, but Peter was here now -- Peter wanted him out of the restraints, and fortunately Neal was _all over_ that. It paid to be prepared!

Peter kept trying to pick him up off the bed, which was nice, and Neal felt he had to make an observation about it because wow, Peter was _strong_. But he could definitely walk on his own, right up to the point where he tried to take a step and the floor smacked him in the face. Didn't hurt, though.

It was kind of hazy, but he found himself in some...big...room, listening with a detached sort of horror as Peter told him he was about to go back inside. That made sense. He'd been on the surveillance tapes. Never get caught on tape. Learned that one from Tulane with the diamond heist and the...big...puzzle thing.

Prison had sucked so bad. He'd only been allowed to see Kate once a week and if he went back in Peter would never ever come to see him. It was suddenly vital that before he never saw Peter again, Peter should know. Peter should _understand_ , like really get it, that this whole thing wasn't a long con, that he really had meant everything he'd ever said, but all that came out of his mouth was, "You're the only one."

"The only one what?" Peter asked. His head was kind of...floating, which was unpleasantly reminiscent of the one time Neal had tried absinthe.

"The only person in my life I trust," Neal blurted.

Peter was quiet, really really quiet, and he just petted Neal on his head and didn't say anything. Well, he said "Don't pick this!" when he cuffed Neal to a chair.

Neal figured Peter was leaving him there for them to find. That was good. Peter shouldn't go down for this, it wasn't his fault. This always happened, he went outside his radius, the radius in Peter's head, and he got in trouble and this time Peter was going to send him back inside for it.

Man, prison sucked.

The next thing he remembered with any clarity at all was being dumped on a sofa that smelled like dog. Or maybe it was just that his face was pressed limply into it. There were voices. He was almost positive they didn't have sofas or dogs in prison. Not the prison they were gonna put him in, anyway. Did they have voices?

He lifted his head and caught sight of a face -- long black hair, dark eyeliner, so, so pretty -- and for a moment he tensed up. _Kate_. Shit. He had to take care of her, he was supposed to rescue her...

"Neal! Neal! Stop!" Kate said, except it wasn't Kate, it was Elizabeth. He stopped trying to get up and just stared at her. Her hair was so goddamn _shiny_.

She grinned at him. "Feeling no pain, huh?"

"Did I say that out loud?" he asked.

"Just -- stay there," Elizabeth said, pushing his shoulder so he was lying back on the sofa. Funny how much prison looked like Peter's living room.

"You're beautiful," he told her. Not that it had never occurred to him before, but he wasn't sure he'd ever said it. She smiled.

"Thank you, sweetie, but maybe you should just lie quietly for a while, okay?" she said. A thought occurred to him with glacial slowness.

"Where's Peter?" he asked.

"He's upstairs. He'll be down soon," she promised.

"He's taking care of it?" Neal slurred.

"Taking care of what?"

"It. Everything. He's taking care of it?"

Elizabeth stroked his hair. Peter had done that. Maybe his hair was shiny too. He'd have to check, later.

"Yeah, Peter's taking care of it. Just rest, okay?" she said. Neal nodded and closed his eyes. Everything went kind of dark for a while.

***

His first thought, on waking, was that someone was stabbing him in the head. His second thought was that someone was also blinding him. He managed to get his arms to cooperate enough to cover his eyes, and then he groaned, because it seemed like about all he could manage.

"Don't do drugs," said a deep, amused voice from nearby. Neal uncovered a fraction of one eye enough to make out a fuzzy Peter-shaped object sitting in a chair next to the sofa.

"Have I been beaten?" Neal asked. "Were there sticks?"

"No," Peter said, as Neal managed to uncover one whole eye. "You were drugged. Remember?"

Thinking hurt. So did his face. Still, he reeled his mind backwards far enough to --

"Oh, Jesus," he said, horrified. "Did I tell you about the Antioch Manuscripts?"

"I won't hold it against you," Peter assured him.

"I think I told Elizabeth her hair was shiny," Neal added.

"Yeah, you did. She definitely won't hold that against you."

Another memory surfaced. Neal wanted to disappear into the couch. Peter reached out and put his index finger on Neal's lips, which also hurt.

"Yes," Peter said, because obviously he knew what Neal was remembering. "You did. I'm going to assume you were playing a sympathy card."

Neal tipped his head a little, and Peter pulled his hand back.

"I wasn't," he said. "I mean -- God, my head -- yeah, I didn't want to say that. Yeah, let's forget it. But it wasn't a con, Peter."

Peter studied him. "I'll get you some ice," he said, and disappeared into the kitchen. Neal closed his eyes and tried to find a place that didn't hurt, but even his ego was bruised.

At the end of everything, though, when they finished the case, at least his suffering had been worth it. Samantha wasn't any less sick, but she was back on the donor list; the scam was shut down, and Neal got to help arrest the asshole who'd shot him full of drugs and made him say embarrassing things -- okay, more embarrassing things -- to Peter.

Neal swore to himself he'd live a clean life. No booze. Definitely no heavy-grade sedatives. Absolutely no hitting on his partner or his partner's wife. He'd been in the game since he was fourteen, more than half his life; he should have more self-control than this.

He was as good as his word, too, for almost three months.

Okay, two months. But one of those involved Peter moving into his suite for days on end, so it felt like three.

***

Working for the FBI was hard. Peter knew that. Running with the big dogs could wear a person down, and even in White Collar they rarely got to see the more pleasant side of the human condition. Plenty of people with more training and fewer raw nerves than Neal Caffrey burned out quickly. And yet, Peter thought, Neal was thriving -- not as breakable as he had suspected, but rather bending to the job, fitting himself to the moment, becoming what was necessary. Still...he wasn't an agent.

Neal wanted to please -- but he _needed_ to learn.

"Explain to me why we're here again?" Neal asked, peeling the corner of the label nervously from his beer bottle. He was jumpy, and wasn't bothering to hide it. Not that he didn't have good reason; the bar they were in was covered in photos of guys in uniform, and full of men and women who looked like they should be in uniform. It was a cop bar, and Neal knew it.

"You gotta learn how these things work," Peter said. "Departmental politics are important."

"I thought Feds hated LEOs. I'm pretty sure LEOs hate Feds. I think once or twice that worked in my favor while you were chasing me," Neal said.

"Will you calm down already? Nobody here is going to arrest you."

"I'm in a bar full of cops," Neal hissed. "Excuse me for watching my back."

"Off-duty cops who haven't got the faintest clue who you are," Peter replied. "Besides, you're with me."

"Yeah, one Fed against a jillion cops, that's totally making me feel safe," Neal answered.

"Hey, you want safe -- "

"Augh, don't say it," Neal groaned. "Fine. Whatever. Am I supposed to go make friends or what?"

"Nope," Peter said, grinning. "Don't worry, friends will find you."

He had his eye on the door, where Mike Shattuck had just come in. Mike spotted him, waved, and stopped at the bar on the way over.

"Neal Caffrey, Captain Mike Shattuck, NYPD," Peter said, when Mike pulled up a chair to the little bar table. "Mike, Neal Caffrey, CI."

"So you're the infamous consultant, huh?" Mike asked, offering Neal his hand. To his credit, when faced with a cop one-on-one, Neal's charm didn't fail him.

"I'm infamous now? I like the sound of that," Neal said, grinning and shaking Mike's hand. "Peter mentions you all the time. Well. Shouts at someone to get you on the phone, mostly."

"Yeah, he only calls when he wants something," Mike said. "How ya been, Peter?"

"Apparently ungrateful," Peter drawled. Mike laughed.

"Ballsy of you bringing a guy like him here," he said to Peter.

"Neal's on our side," Peter replied, and Neal looked pleased.

"You mean the fuckin' Fed side," Mike said.

"Hey, fuckin' Fed," Peter reminded him.

"As stimulating as this conversation is, do we need me here for it?" Neal asked pointedly.

"You asked if LEOs hate Feds," Peter reminded him.

"No, I said I was sure they did," Neal retorted. Mike chuckled.

"Departmental politics is a delicate thing," Peter said. "Officially we don't have much to do with each other. A lot of times it's a jurisdictional issue. We all want credit for a collar. It makes us competitive."

"Yeah, but it screws the little guy," Mike said. "We can't do our jobs if our bosses are busy duking it out with their bosses."

Neal looked like he was already a step ahead of them. It was entirely possible he was. "So you get an inside guy. You're Peter's inside guy. And he's yours?"

"When shit heats up, you need someone who isn't going to wait for the boss to give the ok. When things aren't so busy, you pass information," Mike said.

"How does it work?" Neal asked, which was after all the great question of Neal Caffrey's life. _How do things work?_ He was already treating this relationship like a con he could disassemble, study, and re-create.

"Mike and I were rookies together," Peter said, because Mike looked like he was about to tell tales out of school. "He was a patrol cop when I was a probie. Things happened too fast on the street for much fighting about who took credit."

"We used to get lunch together from that tiny roach coach with the paprikash bowls, you remember that?" Mike said. "Just sit and shoot the shit about all the crap we had to put up with."

Neal was watching like an anthropologist taking notes on a foreign culture. He knew how to charm a civilian, and he knew how to sweet-talk a cop, but he obviously didn't know how cops talked to other cops. Which was, after all, why they were here.

Because Neal was like a cop -- well, okay, Neal wasn't like any cop ever, but he was in the same situation, asked to perform some of the same duties and face the same danger. But he didn't have any of the defenses a cop got: no gun, no cuffs, no authority. No fraternity of officers for Neal. Peter wanted to fix at least some of that.

"There was this one time," Mike said, launching right into a story, " -- this was when I was on the operations team -- anyway, we had a bust together and Burke ran this pimp down like a cheetah, I mean they ran for blocks, and we're listening in on the radio and sending squad cars and throwing everything we have at this guy, but no dice. So Burke finally gets him in a blind alley and he's got him in cuffs, and this pimp is just stunned. Like, how did this fed in a suit catch him? He's swearing at Burke and calling him every name under the sun, honest to God I learned a few new words myself. And finally he says, man, who the _fuck_ are you? Who the fuck _are_ you?"

Peter allowed himself a smile. It was a pretty good story.

"And Burke, clear as day on the radio, says _Who do you think? I'm J. Fucking Edgar Hoover, asshole._ "

"No," Neal said, looking at Peter.

"Hughes heard that," Peter replied, the length of years taking away the embarrassment he'd felt when he got back to the team. Hughes had said, _Hey J. Edgar, a moment?_ and then ripped him a new one in front of everyone. It had been worth every second.

"It was cool though, the guys on the squad loved it. J. Fucking Edgar Hoover," Mike said, relishing it.

"I'm seeing a whole new side of you," Neal informed Peter.

"We were wild ones," Mike laughed. "Come on, I'll introduce you to the guys. Peter?"

"I'm good," Peter said, tipping his bottle at the game on the TV in the corner.

He did keep an eye on the game, but mostly he watched Mike and Neal -- watched Neal do what he always did, join in the crowd and fast-talk his way into everyone's graces. Neal glanced at him occasionally, but he looked less nervous, and by the time Peter had finished his beer Neal was rolling up his sleeve to show off the thin raised line on his shoulder, the scar from where Carruthers had winged him before Peter shot Carruthers off the fire escape. From some of his gestures, he could tell Neal was recounting the story.

Eventually, Mike drifted back to the table, both of them now watching Neal show a crowd of cops how to palm a shot glass.

"Where the hell did you turn him up?" Mike asked.

"Supermax," Peter replied.

"No shit. What was he in for?"

"Bond forgery."

"In supermax?" Mike asked.

"Neal's...not someone who likes prison," Peter said, tactfully. "Took him a month and a half to break out, when he finally got around to it."

Mike whistled. "And you trust him?"

Peter shrugged. "He's got a tracking anklet, and he's smart. Too smart, but then -- "

"So were we," Mike finished. Peter nodded. Mike cleared his throat. "How you been? Never see you unless one of us is in the middle of an arrest."

"Good. Working. Clearing cases."

"How's El?"

"She's fine. Her business is really picking up," Peter said. "You?"

"More desk work," Mike said with a grimace. "On the other hand, less getting shot at. Makes Deke happy."

"How's he?"

"Fucking insane, as usual. I can't go on busts, but he runs into burning buildings?" Mike took a sip of his beer. "It's good though."

Peter was about to say something comforting about how firefighters were insane as a rule, but Neal was working his way back to the table, a wide grin on his face.

"Not so jumpy anymore, huh?" Peter asked.

"Hey, it turns out cops are people too. Who knew?" Neal said.

"Ready to go?"

"Yeah. Listen, thank you," Neal said, shaking Mike's hand again.

"No problem. Keep your heads down," Mike replied, taking them both in. Neal made for the door, but Mike stopped Peter with a hand on his arm. "I mean that. I know what goes on in this town, Peter. Your name's up way too often on the squad reports lately. Don't get shot."

"Do my best," Peter said. "You too."

"And keep an eye on that one!" Mike called after him. Peter laughed as he stepped out of the bar and joined Neal on the sidewalk, already waving for a taxi.

***

Neal, to his surprise, genuinely liked Mike Shattuck. He liked most of the cops Mike had introduced him to. He'd rarely been on the same side as the cops, though he'd posed as one briefly a couple of times. Now, known as one of Shattuck's Fed buddies, he found he could understand their position a little better. They were definitely a lot nicer to him, anyway.

He was grateful, too, for the connections, because a week later he had reason to pull some NYPD files on a small-time museum heist too minor for the FBI to get involved in. Neal had been tipped off that it was Matthew Keller's work, but even if he hadn't he'd have seen Keller's fingerprints all over it, which was why he didn't want to get Peter involved yet -- didn't want Peter involved at all if he could work it alone.

He called a Sergeant named Calhoun at the NYPD, who couldn't help him but introduced him to Smith, who knew how to pull the files he wanted and courier them over on an FBI expense account. The NYPD's suspect was an obvious mark named Campos, who was dead by noon the day Neal started his investigation. Which made Neal's subterfuge a little pointless, since when Campos was murdered he had to give Peter the whole story anyway, but even pointless subterfuge could be pleasurable.

Right up until the moment Campos died, Neal had cherished the admittedly delusional hope that this might be fun. Squaring off against Keller always had been in the past; working with him, too. Keller had taught Neal how to counterfeit poker chips, palm anything smaller than a baseball, and snaplight a Zippo. He'd also been the first boy Neal had ever kissed, though kissing was the least they'd done.

He honestly couldn't remember whether Keller had ditched him or he'd run off first. Connections were so tenuous in those days and people drifted in and out of each others' spheres, disappearing for days at a time on a job and reappearing when you least expected it. Keller had taken him under his wing for a couple of months, and they'd had a good time, and somehow Neal had ended up on a cruise ship to the Keys and Keller had ended up a _fucking psychopath._ He'd always been a sneaky son of a bitch who made sure he had the upper hand -- even in Monaco, Keller had made it about games he could win against other cons, and later on the rare occasions they encountered each other he'd done the same to Neal -- but that was just nastiness, it wasn't murder. The fact that Keller killed a man and didn't care caught Neal somewhere in his ribcage. He'd liked Keller, once. Even when they were on opposite sides, he'd respected him.

Putting Keller away felt so good. For about ten minutes.

Then Neal went home and got very, very drunk.

He threw Mozzie out around the fourth glass of scotch, when Moz wouldn't shut up about getting in touch with Alex and the music box and finally made a remark about how maybe Neal should slow down a little with the booze. He guessed Moz probably called Peter, which was a big leap for Mozzie, but if he did either Peter was still at work or felt he should leave Neal alone for the night (wise man). So instead, when the unasked-for cavalry did arrive, it was Elizabeth.

She didn't bother knocking; Neal heard someone on the stairs and was prepared to wait until they went away again, but the door simply opened quietly and Elizabeth slipped in.

Neal was sitting at the table, arms crossed on the smooth wood, head resting sideways on them, staring at the latest glass of scotch (number seven).

"Hey," he said.

Elizabeth took off her scarf. "Hi, Neal."

"You want a drink?" Neal asked, nudging the glass with two fingers, not moving his head. Elizabeth's hand closed around the glass and she set it aside, sitting down in his eyeline. She studied him for a moment, then leaned forward and mirrored his pose, arms crossed, chin resting on her wrists.

"You never seem to see me at my best," Neal added.

"Well, as I understand it, your best generally involves being in the middle of some complicated heist," she replied. "So I'm okay with that."

Neal grunted. Elizabeth just watched him.

"Peter says you got a guy for murder today," she said finally.

"Matty Keller," Neal told her. "He and I used to run together."

"I thought you were more like competitors."

He smiled. "Yeah. For a while. When I was a kid we did some jobs, though."

"Is that why the drinking?" she asked.

"Why the drinking," Neal echoed. "Why the drinking. No. Why the drinking is that a guy I used to run with went up for murder today, and my girlfriend might be evil. And Alex got really...hard, while I was in prison. And I'm worried I make people around me be insane."

"Well, you drive Peter a little nuts."

"No, no," he said, shaking his head against his arm. "Like I'm cursed. I literally make people worse than they were."

Elizabeth gave him a slight sympathetic pout. "What about Mozzie?"

Neal waved a hand. "He was already insane when we met. I don't want to curse June evil, Elizabeth. Or you or Peter."

She smiled at that. Neal smiled back. Elizabeth seemed to like it when he smiled.

"Did you ever think maybe it's the company you kept?" she asked. "You didn't have the best taste in friends. And I haven't noticed you casting an evil spell on Peter or Lauren, or Clinton. Or June."

"Give it time," Neal said. Elizabeth rubbed his wrist with one hand, soothing. "No, it'll be okay. I can do this. I can do all of it."

"All of what?" she asked softly.

"I can be one of the good guys and help Moz out and save Kate, and protect her, and make Peter happy, and put cons away, and get Alex to help me somehow, and keep June safe, and keep out of trouble -- "

"God, Neal," Elizabeth interrupted. "Is that what's going through your head on a daily basis?"

Neal closed his eyes. "Pretty much."

"I'd have started drinking a lot sooner."

Neal snorted.

"Sweetheart, you don't have to be white knight of the universe," Elizabeth told him. "You don't have to solve every problem. Especially without asking the other people involved."

"Who else will?" Neal said, aware he was slurring a little. "Peter would, but there's stuff he can't do. I gotta do it."

"This guy really hit you where you live, didn't he?"

Neal turned his face into his arms. Elizabeth was still rubbing his wrist, gentle circles.

"Matty taught me a lot of stuff, Elizabeth," he said, into the soft, airless little place between arms and table. "I thought he was an asshole, but I didn't think he was a murderer."

"Was he one of the Vegas crew?" she asked.

"No, this was before Vegas. Monaco. Have Peter show you the file sometime."

She laughed a little. "You must've been young."

"Seventeen," Neal said, and then, before he could stop himself, "I can't believe I ever slept with him."

Elizabeth's hand stilled, but she didn't pull away. Neal turned his head again, to see her reaction. She looked...thoughtful, more than anything.

"I shouldn't have said that," he said. 

"So you didn't just put away someone you knew," she said. "You put away a...what, ex-boyfriend?"

Neal shook his head. "Nothing that formal."

"Fling?"

"Nothing that casual. Aw, Jesus." He sat up, leaning back, pulling away. "Don't tell Peter."

"I won't," she said. "He wouldn't care, though."

"We don't ask, we don't care," Neal sighed.

"Well, there's that. But I think he'd understand. I think if you told him, he'd be able to..."

"Help?" Neal asked. "How, exactly?"

"Sometimes understanding is enough."

"I know you love him and all, but I don't think he'd get it."

Elizabeth inched closer, leaning forward, elbows on her knees now. "He'd get it."

Neal frowned. "I'm missing subtext, aren't I?"

"A little bit." Elizabeth sighed. "Before Peter met me, he dated Mike Shattuck for about a year."

Neal sat forward so fast the legs of the chair banged on the floor. " _Captain_ Shattuck?"

Elizabeth grinned. "It's not a secret. Well. It was at the time, the Bureau used to be a little more uptight. NYPD still is, but it's probably the worst kept secret on the force. Peter didn't tell you?"

"Straight, basketball-playing Peter Burke, ten-years-married Peter Burke dated Shattuck?"

Elizabeth laughed. "What, you can't play basketball if you're sleeping with a guy?"

" _Peter Burke_ \-- "

"Has a lot of history you don't know about," Elizabeth said. "You think I'm the only person he ever went out with? Have a look at the man, Neal. He's gorgeous. Totally inept around women -- and men too, sometimes -- but he never had any shortage of offers from anyone. And I know you know that, because you made him an offer too."

Neal dropped his eyes. Elizabeth ruffled his hair.

"I don't care, Neal. It's the past. I knew about Peter's old flames before we got married, and he knew about mine. I've had a lot of time to get used to the ex-boyfriends as well as the ex-girlfriends. Anyway, you both know where you stand now. Besides," she added, lifting his chin a little with one hand, "Peter wouldn't tell me if it was as hot as I think it was. Bet you will."

She was grinning. Neal gave her an uncertain smile.

"I don't really think..." he trailed off.

"Yeah, fine. You boys and your secrets," she sighed. "Just...remember that Peter existed before you met him, Neal. He's more than what you know about him. Stop drinking, go to bed, and talk to him about it tomorrow."

"Why'd you come here tonight?" Neal asked, staring at her.

"Because I was worried about you," Elizabeth said. "Because I care about you."

" _Why?_ "

"Oh, sweetie," Elizabeth said. She stood up, kissed his forehead, and gathered up her purse. "Take your time and work that one out, okay?"

She was at the door before he found his voice again. "Elizabeth!"

"Yeah?" she asked, turning.

"It was hot. It was really good," Neal said. "You're lucky, you're so lucky."

"I know," she said quietly, with the same private kind of smile Peter got when he talked about her. "Goodnight, Neal."

"Night, Elizabeth," he said. 

After the door closed behind her, he glanced at the still-full glass of scotch on the table.

Then, with a sigh, he got up and did as he was told -- undressed, climbed into bed, and slept.

Neal probably would have followed Elizabeth's orders to the letter, though he wouldn't have liked it. He could have faced Peter, a Peter who suddenly had a past he knew nothing about, and told him about what really happened in Monaco when he was seventeen. He could have, he was sure he could have. And he was sure that she was right: somehow, Peter could have helped.

But he woke up with a hangover, and he got a message from Moz that Alex was on her way, and then he had to fucking _bargain_ with Alex over the music box and whether he could get his tracker off. Alex probably hated him as much as Keller did. She probably had reason.

So by the time he got to the office that day he was late, Peter was pissed, he was still hung over, and then before he had time to take a deep breath he'd been passed off to another department. Chasing Ryan Wilkes, who had once tried to kill him, and who had kidnapped the daughter of the man whose bonds he'd ripped off and gone to prison over.

Great.


	5. Chapter 5

Peter didn't like Kimberly Rice. He didn't like feds who went after fame. Rice was loud and pushy, and he could respect that because it sucked to be a woman in the old boys' network. But she was loud and pushy and an attention-seeker, looking to climb the ranks through publicity rather than on merit. Show-offs went into Missing Persons, because if they failed they got to look sad and dramatic for the cameras, and if they succeeded they got to stand next to the joyfully weeping family for the photo ops.

Plus she was trying to take Neal away from him, and Peter really hated people who did that.

Still, there was a missing girl involved, and Neal could genuinely be of help. So he let Rice take Neal out. If he kept Neal's tracker map up on his computer in real-time while Neal wasn't under his eye, then he was at least smart enough to realize this was crazy and make sure nobody else saw.

It was a quiet day; Jones and Cruz were busy starting the paperwork on the Franklin Bottle, and with Neal out of the office Peter found himself at loose ends. Plus, it really was very crazy to have Neal's map up on his screen, because Neal hadn't moved much in the last two hours. Finally he called Elizabeth.

"Hey, lunch date," he said, when she answered. "You, me, somewhere swanky."

"Somewhere swanky like our dining room?" El replied.

"Stuck at home?"

"Tied to the laptop till I see the bids go through for the furniture rental."

"No problem," Peter said. "As long as it gets me out of the office."

"Peter," El said, "Did you talk to Neal this morning?"

Peter paused. "I talk to Neal every morning."

"Is he there?"

"No, he got loaned out to another department on a case."

"So you didn't really get to talk to him," El concluded.

"Why, did he need to say something? He had the time," Peter said, confused.

"No, it's nothing. Come home, I'll make you some deviled ham."

When he got home he meant to ask her what she meant by all the talk about talking, but he was still -- concerned, that was a good word, professionally concerned about Neal. Rice wasn't like him, she didn't feel responsible to the Bureau in the same way he did, and now that he didn't have Neal's map at his elbow he was wondering if he could get an app for it installed on his phone.

El seemed to understand; she made small talk, and then made gentle fun of him when she caught him blatantly not listening. She saw no problem with Peter actually going to where Neal was and having a look around. Peter knew it was bad form to crash a case, but he also knew El was playing some kind of very quiet game with him, and that intrigued him. El didn't play games very often.

Plus, he'd get to put his eyes on Neal for a few minutes and make sure Rice hadn't gotten him killed or something.

Neal was still at the scene of the kidnapping when Peter got there after lunch. He was sitting in the car, looking bored. He must be sulking; if Peter had sent him to sit in the car he'd have gone to the car, stayed there for maybe two minutes, and then wandered off to get into some kind of useful trouble. When Peter knocked on the window, Neal burst into a grin. Peter wouldn't say it out loud, ever, because it only led to trouble and he had enough of that, but he liked it when he walked into the room and Neal lit up. For a start, it meant that Neal was behaving himself.

Even seeing Neal felt wrong, though, because seeing him reminded Peter that Neal belonged to Rice at the moment. That felt wrong instinctively -- and it felt way, way too wrong for Rice to send Neal into Wilkes's club undercover. Without his tracker.

He should have listened to his instincts. He knew he should have when Gless mentioned offhand to him that his daughter's safety had been promised if Neal would meet up with Wilkes at the club.

He got the warning to Neal _almost_ in time.

So when Kimberly Rice walked into the field office like she was any kind of competent agent and clapped her hands and said his people belonged to her in order to find Neal, after she'd lost Neal to Wilkes in the first place, Peter fucking lost it. He told her what he thought of her, what he thought of what she'd done to Neal, and he didn't care if everyone in the office saw that it was Neal he was worried about, Neal who mattered. He didn't care if Hughes saw. He didn't care if anyone knew that clearly he was way over the line when it came to Neal, because Neal belonged to him and he let someone else have him for one goddamn day and now he was missing.

Hughes did see. Everyone saw. But nobody seemed to _notice_ , because Hughes gave him the case and then, at least, it was Peter's job to find Neal. He could deal with everyone knowing he was inappropriately attached to his CI later.

Neal had been missing and completely out of contact for thirteen hours when El called Peter to tell him that Moz was at their home (slightly worrying) and he had a message from Neal.

"Oh, good boy," Peter said, under his breath, when the travel agency gave up the video footage of Neal walking into the office. He was not so pleased when Rice passed him a file on Edward Riley, the guy Neal had apparently been chasing down. Riley was connected to a lot of thefts, and almost as many killings. Still, if Neal was playing front-man for some op Wilkes was running, at least now they knew where he'd be.

Neal had been missing for seventeen hours when he turned up at LaGuardia and Peter for a second just wanted to shove him into a wall and force a tracker around his leg. The strength of the urge surprised him. It was possessive and a little bit dark. But he didn't do what he pleased, because the job came first; they did their job, Jones kept Neal from getting shot, and Peter found the girl. Wilkes was going to go away.

So Peter was feeling pretty pleased with himself and the world, and looking forward to getting Neal checked over and sending him home to sleep off a bad couple of days, when Neal vanished.

Son of a bitch, what did it take to keep Caffrey on a leash these days?

***

Neal knew, when he dodged out without his anklet on, that there would be hell to pay later, but he had no choice. He just needed a little time to get home, to show Alex his tracker was off, and to get the location of the music box. He was willing to risk it, for Kate, and he didn't think risking Peter's passing wrath was so very terrible.

"You're late," Alex said, when Neal walked in the door. His head hurt; his neck was killing him where they'd tased him the first time, and his left arm was sore. He felt like he might have a bruised rib or three. He was tired, and he just wanted the bullshit to be over.

"Long day," he said shortly, wishing this were anyone but Alex. Even Mozzie's spectacular obsessive shit-fits would be better than this.

"What's with the outfit?"

"Long story," he sighed. He was going to have to flirt this, but he could make it quick. He pulled up his trouser leg, showing off the ankle with no tracker, too tired to crack a joke about an Amish peep show.

"Congratulations," Alex said, sounding unimpressed. "How'd you do it?"

"You'd be surprised how much I can get done in a day," Neal said, which was really only funny to him. 

Alex wanted to bargain, again, but Neal played along right up until the moment she actually mentioned Kate. That she didn't trust him anymore because he'd left her bed and got on a flight to Japan and fifteen months later he showed up with Kate.

They'd never made any promises. It was like him and Keller, or him and Deirdre in Vegas, or him and Tom in Norway. Nobody ever asked for more from him and so they never got it.

He remembered now that he _had_ left Keller. Matty had gone off on a job and while he was gone Neal had left for the Keys because the opportunity was too sweet to resist. God, maybe that had actually hurt Matty -- maybe Neal really was just a shitty boyfriend.

He'd stuck by Kate, though, loved her thoroughly and as deeply as he could, wanted the world for her. Other people trusted him now too, June and Jones and Cruz -- and Elizabeth. And Peter. Who asked so much more from him than he could even give and yet wouldn't ask for the one thing Neal wanted to give him.

The thing with Kate had happened. Neal and Alex both knew it. Everyone knew it. But suddenly Neal was seeing it in a new light -- the light of Alex, who had sent her boyfriend to Japan and missed him and then found him a year and a half later running around with some other chick.

"That's over now," he said. He wasn't even sure if it was a lie.

Alex gave him an origami flower -- he'd sent her those from Japan, before disappearing -- and inside were three words: _It's in Manhattan._

Well, it was a step. When the time came he was sure Alex would tell him right where to find it. And then they could steal it...together.

Neal rubbed his eyes, put the sheet of paper in the sink, poured a shot of alcohol over it and dropped a match. It flared briefly, and when the paper was destroyed he ran water over it, washing the ash down the drain. One more thing to do before tonight was complete.

Once he got to the FBI offices, he expected to be shouted at, but Peter didn't even look up; nobody seemed to notice Neal crossing the floor, climbing the half-flight of steps. Peter just held up the tracking anklet and asked, "Forget something?"

Neal prayed it would really be this easy. "Made it all the way home before I realised it was gone."

"Just slipped your mind?" Peter asked.

So, no, then.

"I came back," Neal tried.

"What did Alex have to say?" Peter asked. Neal gave up on smiling and trying to seem innocent. It had never worked all that well on Peter in the first place.

Peter seemed to know everything, either by research or inference -- that he'd met with Alex, that Alex wanted him to be able to slip his anklet, that they were going after the music box. It was actually a little scary how much he knew, but Neal didn't think he was really in trouble until Peter told him his choices: he could try for the music box and go back to prison, or he could be a good boy and stay with the FBI.

Kate wasn't even on the list. Nothing Peter offered him would end with him getting Kate back.

Peter was walking away, leaving the anklet behind. Neal snatched it off the desk and ran after him. He didn't make it before the elevator closed, but he caught up in the parking garage.

"Peter!"

Peter turned. Neal stopped running.

"I need to tell you something," he said. He saw Peter's eyes flick down to his ankle. He'd put the tracker on in the elevator.

"What?" Peter asked, spreading his arms.

"Not here," Neal said. "Jesus, in a parking garage?"

Peter rolled his eyes. "You're ruining my dramatic exit," he said, but he gestured at the Taurus. "Come on, get in the car."

Neal ran across the garage, ducking into the car before Peter could change his mind. Peter started it up and looked at him.

"You want me to take you home?" he said. Neal inhaled.

"I want you to take me home with you," he replied. Peter shook his head. "Please, Peter."

"This had better be good," Peter said, backing them out and pulling through the gate onto the street. "Is it about the box?"

"No. Just -- give me this, okay? Today's been long enough."

"Fine." Peter flipped open his phone and dialled without looking. "Yeah, it's Burke. I'm taking Caffrey out of his radius." he reeled off a pair of numbers -- his badge, Neal's tracker ID -- then tossed the phone in a cupholder.

"How's Lindsey?" Neal asked, into the silence that followed.

"She's at home, resting. Gless called me, asked if he could submit a letter of thanks to the Bureau for our efforts."

"A thank-you note. That's a new one," Neal said, because he could sense something on the horizon. Peter tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel as he drove.

"You know I got a file on you," he said, finally. "Not the official one. I got a file that has every case we've worked on and a list of everyone who knows you and knows what you did for them. People who would remember you as something more than a con. There's business owners, cops, even a priest or two. Gless is on there now."

"Why?" Neal asked.

"Because in two years you come up for a parole hearing," Peter said. "And maybe you get your tracker off early. It's not easy getting a job as an ex-felon; if you stayed with the Bureau you could have steady work, even choose what cases to take. You could work with other field offices. I'd like you in White Collar but you'd have options, because of that file, because of the work you do. You know who else in your line of work, with your kind of history, gets that kind of deal? Nobody. And all you have to do is be good at this."

"You mean be good," Neal said.

"That too," Peter agreed.

They rode the rest of the way in silence.

***

"El!" Peter called, when they got back, tossing his keys on the table and hanging up his coat. There was a clatter from upstairs.

"Hi honey!" she yelled back, leaning over the railing. "Did you find -- hi Neal," she said, sounding a little surprised.

"He followed me home," Peter told her, a little grimly, as she came down the stairs.

"You want something to eat?" she asked, kissing him hello.

"Thanks, I got something at the office."

"Neal?" El leaned around him. Neal, who was giving Satchmo hello-skritches, looked up at them.

"Oh -- no, thanks, I'm okay," he said. El looked back and forth between them.

"I'll make some tea," she announced, and went into the kitchen. Peter took off his suit-coat, loosened his tie, and walked into the dining room, leaning on the table, arms crossed. Neal took his time hanging up his jacket. He looked down at the thin chauffeur's-uniform tie he was wearing, grimaced, and pulled it off, tossing it in the trash can by the door. Then he followed Peter, standing in front of him like a kid expecting a dressing down, hands shoved in his pockets.

"You wanted to talk," Peter said.

"It's not about the box," Neal said, studying Peter's shoes. "And it's not -- it's important to me, not to the work."

"Okay," Peter said slowly.

"But the job comes first, right?" Neal asked, eyes darting up.

"That depends. The job comes before our egos," Peter said, because he was in very uncertain waters here. "It comes before things like personal wants, personal emotions. Not before our health. Not before our sanity."

Neal laughed a little. "Yeah, sure."

"Neal, what the hell is it?" Peter asked.

"It's about Keller," Neal said, and finally looked up. Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw shadows moving in the kitchen -- El, standing near the door, perhaps listening.

There were a thousand things that Neal could say about Keller, Peter thought; that they'd been in on the scam together, that Neal was planning to spring him, that he knew of evidence that could help indict him.

"We've hardly finished processing him," Peter said. "We don't even have any court dates yet."

"I know, it's not that," Neal waved a hand dismissively. "Elizabeth said I should talk to you about him."

Peter straightened up a little. "Since when do you talk to my wife about Matthew Keller?"

"Look, I had a bad night, okay? Moz called her and told her. We talked. What, I'm not allowed to talk to Elizabeth?"

Peter ran a hand over his face. "No. Of course you are. I just didn't know."

"Yeah, well, there wasn't a lot of time," Neal said, voice a little sharper now. Peter gave him a warning look.

"Keller," he prompted.

"Keller wasn't just some guy I knew back when," Neal said. Peter noticed his shoulders were pulling in, hands restless; he was the striking opposite of the Neal Caffrey who walked around New York every day like he owned it. "I slept with him."

"You what?" Peter asked, startled. "When?"

"Not on the case!" Neal said, looking a little offended Peter would assume that. "When we were kids. In Monaco. I liked the guy. I didn't think he was a murderer. He used to be my -- my boyfriend, and he killed someone, and now he's going away for that because of me. I don't know what I should think about that."

Peter bowed his head. Caffrey had put an ex-boyfriend away and the next day he'd been abducted, and the day after that he'd nearly been shot, again. And here he was in Peter's home clearly begging for some kind of help with his screwed-up life.

"Elizabeth told me about you and Shattuck," Neal added. Peter laughed a little to himself. Of course she had. El thought the junior G-man and the flatfoot was a romantic story, if one that should stay firmly in the past. "She said you'd understand."

Peter nodded, looking up. "Is that all you want? My understanding?"

"It'd help," Neal said. "At least I'd know we can go forward. Right now I don't feel like I know anything."

Peter pushed off from the table and closed the gap between them a little. Neal's eyes kept flicking -- sidelong and back to his face, down, up, as if he didn't want Peter to think he was getting too good a look.

"You've had a long three days," Peter said gently. "And yeah. I do understand. It's hard seeing people you loved change. Maybe that's not something you're used to."

"I didn't _love_ him -- " Neal began to protest, but Peter held up a hand.

"These are things you don't have to tell me. It's not mandatory, not like other things we've talked about," Peter said. "But you can, if you want to. And I will understand."

Neal nodded. Peter rubbed his arm, only meaning to be comforting. He was opening his mouth to tell Neal he could have some tea and then a cab home, but he stopped when he saw Neal flinch. Just a barest flicker, but definitely there.

Peter dug his thumb into Neal's arm, caught the flinch again. He let him go. With a glance that told Neal not to even think about objecting, Peter lifted his arm and turned it. There were scorchmarks in the shirt.

"They tased me," Neal reminded him, pulling away.

"You didn't get it looked at? I thought you'd at least stop to get some damn bandages," Peter said, angry that he hadn't noticed sooner. Neal flinched again. Peter wasn't even touching him.

"I didn't have time," Neal mumbled. Peter took a deep breath.

"Okay. Shirt off," he said.

"It's not a big -- "

"Off," Peter repeated. Neal, looking like he'd been asked to strip naked, unbuttoned his shirt slowly, easing it down his shoulders. He held out his arm obediently enough, putting it in the light from the dining room lamp, but he kept his body back in the darkness of the living room. Peter took his elbow and tugged him forward.

On his arm, just below the shoulder, were a pair of two blistered red burns, close-set, one of them scabbed around the edge. Higher up, along the line of his throat -- Peter tilted his chin around and Neal went with the motion -- were two more.

"It wasn't a big deal," Neal repeated. The larger burn on his neck was almost the size of a quarter. There were bruises, too, one big faded purple one on his chest (looked like a punch; Peter had been in enough fights to know) and a few smaller ones down his side, where he'd probably fallen on something.

"I got worse from being dragged down a fire escape," Neal said, with a fake grin.

"Sit," Peter told him, pulling one of the chairs out.

"Look, just point me at the -- "

"Did I ask?" Peter said. "Sit down."

Neal circled him, wary, and settled on the edge of the chair, elbows on the table, thumbs pressed against his lips. Peter touched his shoulder lightly, to make sure he'd stay, and then hurried up the stairs to the first-aid kit in the bathroom.

"I have tea," he heard El say, while he was digging out supplies. "I don't know if you -- oh. Kay," she said. "Peter? Neal's shirtless."

"I told him to take it off," Peter called.

"Exciting," El called back. "Neal, what did you do to yourself?"

"He didn't," Peter yelled. "He got tased."

"I got tased," Neal said, and there was enough amusement in his voice that Peter thought he was probably over whatever little freakout he'd just had.

"Witch hazel's in the -- "

"I know," Peter said, annoyed.

"And I have some aloe cream -- "

"I got it," Peter told her, descending the stairs again. Neal looked at him like this was some kind of strange barbarian ritual he'd never encountered before.

Peter laid out the stuff on the table -- gauze, medical tape, El's funky aloe sunburn cream, witch hazel, scissors and a handful of cotton balls. He popped the lid on the aloe.

"So," El said, putting out a hand to redirect Neal's attention from Peter as he sat in the chair next to him and took his left arm, stretching it out. "I keep asking Mozzie what he does for a living and he won't say."

"Mozzie's a freelancer," Neal replied. When Peter touched the cotton ball with the aloe on it to his arm, his muscle twitched. "He does a little bit of everything. I keep him on retainOW," he said, looking woundedly at Peter, who had just prodded the blister.

"Neal, over here," El told him. Neal glanced back at her. "He said he thought my company was a front for Peter."

Peter snorted, dabbing the aloe around the blister. Above it, the scar Carruthers had given Neal looked stark and unforgiving. These things happened, even when you were one of the good guys.

"Mozzie thinks everything's a front," Neal said, though it sounded like it was taking some effort to focus. "I mean, you gotta admire a guy with that much strength of imagination. Think how much more interesting his world must be."

"If you like fairy tales," Peter muttered. He caught El glaring at him as he unwound the gauze and began wrapping it around Neal's arm.

"Maybe some of us do," Neal said. He lifted his other arm and sipped his tea while Peter cut and taped the gauze. "Besides, it helps with code-passing. He gets inventive, and he understands stuff. He understood the code I sent him this morning."

Peter lifted his fingers and touched Neal's jaw. Neal tipped his head sideways, exposing the burns on his neck.

"Good," Peter told him, bending over to study them. Neal closed his eyes.

"You know what he calls -- " Neal hissed momentarily, when Peter applied the aloe, " -- you know what he calls Agent Rice?"

"What's that?" El asked. Peter looked up and saw her smiling.

"The Pants Suit," Neal said. El laughed. Peter snorted.

"If she got you killed I was going to make sure she never worked in law enforcement again," he said, and suddenly everyone was serious. "What?" he asked, cutting a pad of gauze and fitting it over the burns. "Hold that there."

Neal did as he was told.

"He could do that," El said, while Peter taped the gauze down. Neal was silent. "He has that kind of power in the Bureau. If you said the word he probably would."

"I'd still be dead," Neal pointed out, letting his hand fall. He tipped his head upright again and opened his eyes. "And I wouldn't ask for that."

"The point isn't whether you'd ask," El said. "It's that if you did, he would."

Neal glanced up at Peter, who gave a slight nod before turning to El. "Honey, could you get one of my shirts from the washer?"

"Sure. Don't go anywhere," El told Neal, who laughed a little. She disappeared into the kitchen, heading for the laundry room. Peter pushed back Neal's chair with one foot, making space between him and the table. He cut another pad and held it over the top of the witch hazel bottle, tipping it to wet the gauze.

"I can do that myself," Neal said, when Peter tipped the bottle back.

"I know you can," Peter said. "But I'm going to. Problems?"

Neal shook his head. Peter bent over him, spreading one hand on unbruised skin, subtly probing his ribs as he swabbed the bruises with his other hand.

"Nothing's broken," Neal told him. Their foreheads were almost touching. "I'd know, because of all the pain and difficulty breathing."

"You don't like to tell me important information," Peter said. "So why don't you let me check anyway?"

"Look at you, all Dr. Peter Burke," Neal said.

"I was a first-responder in college," Peter told him gravely.

Neal -- such an opportunist -- lifted his head slightly and pressed his lips to Peter's. Peter didn't stop checking, fingers moving up along the curve of each rib, and he didn't kiss back, but Neal didn't seem to care. If it was distraction, fine, Peter had done worse things for people he liked less --

There was a cough from the kitchen doorway. Peter froze.

***

Neal wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, exactly, about the fact that Peter was feeling him up. Checking for broken ribs, sure, but Neal hadn't had this much skin-to-skin contact with anyone in a couple of years, at least. He wasn't worried, exactly. He didn't _have_ to worry, because Peter hadn't given him a choice. But it was distracting, all this touching, and Peter's wide sarcastic mouth was right there. So Neal kissed him, because if he couldn't have Peter he could have this, at least.

When he heard Elizabeth cough, he felt Peter tense, and he pulled back just enough that they could, if they wanted, all pretend he hadn't done that. Peter's hands were still on his chest, checking the lowest ribs on his left side.

"This isn't what it looks like," Peter said, which was a lie. He straightened up and half-turned, hip against the table. "Hi, sweetie."

"Neal," Elizabeth said -- she was looking past Peter, at him, like she knew everything about him. She had a white cotton t-shirt in one hand. "You have to stop kissing my husband without his permission."

"Well I would, but he won't say yes," Neal heard himself say.

"El -- " Peter began, swallowing. She touched his arm and put her finger to her lips, shushing him.

"You," she said to Neal, "have been nothing but trouble since the day Peter took your case."

Neal tried not to let anything show on his face. Of course, he had to go and screw this up, he'd been just fine with all the touching and the talking about how he meant something to them, and then he'd screwed it up.

"I guess it keeps life interesting," Elizabeth continued, "but it makes for some awkward moments, Neal."

Neal put out his hand for the shirt. "I can go -- "

Elizabeth held it out of reach.

"El, what are you doing?" Peter asked.

"I think Neal should stay here tonight," she said. She looked at Peter, finally. "With us. I think he should stay with us."

"We're married," Peter said softly. "I'm not -- I made you a promise, El."

"And you've been very good about keeping it," she told him, patting his cheek. Neal fought down a sudden laugh. "But I think this is a little bit different, don't you?"

"What, so now there are exceptions to wedding vows?" Peter asked. "No. That's not how it works. I married you. I screwed up once -- "

"I love you, sweetheart, but you're right. My record's a little better than yours at the moment," Elizabeth said. Neal saw she was smiling. "Neal wasn't a screwup. Neal was...an inevitability. I'm guessing," she added, looking at Neal, "that Neal needed you. It's hard for you to say no to that. It's one of many reasons I love you, and a good reason Neal should stay here tonight."

Peter looked like he might give in, but he set his mouth in a firm line and pulled away from both of them. "No. I can't do that."

"I'm not saying you should," Elizabeth told him. "I'm saying _we_ should."

Peter stared at her. Neal did too.

"There are so many ways this could go wrong -- " Peter began.

"Like what?" Elizabeth asked. "Bad sex?"

"I'm responsible for him!" Peter shouted.

"Uh, still here," Neal said, holding up a hand.

"Fine. I'm responsible for _you,_ " Peter said. Neal leaned away from him a little, defensively. "It's a massive breach of protocol."

"And I've let that stop me when?" Neal asked.

"You might not. I have to."

"Not as much around Neal though, huh, honey?" Elizabeth asked. Peter turned back to her. "What? I'm not the only one who was -- what was it, Neal?"

"Hindering Prosecution," Neal supplied.

"You're supposed to be on my side!" Peter snapped at Elizabeth.

She touched his shirt, smoothing it down a little. "It's not your side, Peter. It's the Bureau's side, and it's making everyone miserable."

Peter swayed into the touch. Neal watched, fascinated.

"He's my responsibility. I literally have the power to send him to prison," Peter said. "He can't give free consent."

"Oh, I totally do," Neal volunteered.

"Shut up, Neal," Peter said. Neal closed his mouth.

"If Neal said no, would you? Send him to prison?" Elizabeth asked.

"No, of course not," Peter replied. "But nobody else knows that. It wouldn't hold up. This is my career, and if I go down for coercing him, Neal goes back to prison whether I want him to or not." He paused, as if something had just occurred to him. "El, are you saying you want this?"

She gave him a fond, you're-an-idiot smile. "I'm saying none of us are happy right now. You're confused, and Neal needs us, and -- well, I think it would be hot," she added.

"You're a little obsessed with the hotness of my CI," Peter told her.

"Your partner," she answered. Something warm and sharp filled Neal's chest.

When he stood up, the chair's legs on the floor felt like the loudest thing in the world. Elizabeth put her hand out and touched him, fingertips on his chest. She had one hand on each of them. Peter was watching Neal with keen, hungry eyes.

It occurred to Neal for the first time that Peter wanted him -- that he wasn't only taking something from Peter. Peter wanted something from him, too, and just hadn't allowed himself to have it before.

Elizabeth slid her hand down Neal's chest, hooking her fingers in his belt and tugging him forward. He went, feeling like the air had been sucked out of the room -- and he actually, literally knew what that felt like, which was so fucking funny it was almost unreal, but before he could laugh Elizabeth kissed him. He smiled against her mouth and kissed back, raising a hand to tangle in her hair. When he looked up from the kiss, her fingers had knotted in Peter's shirt, white-knuckle tight. Peter's mouth was open, but he hadn't moved.

"He's so bad at this," Elizabeth said in Neal's ear. Neal grinned.

"We can make it work," he told Peter. "We've done dumber things before."

"I'm not so sure about -- " Peter broke off when Neal kissed him, pressing a hand over Elizabeth's, still holding onto his shirt. This time, Peter bent his head, and for the _first_ time, he gave in. Just an inch, just a small movement, but he kissed Neal back.

Neal felt a hand close around his throat, fingers resting gently there, thumb in the hollow of his jaw. Peter could end this at any minute with the slightest pressure. Peter could choke off his air with not much more. But he wouldn't.

Neal didn't bother to silence the high, eager whine in his throat this time. He heard Elizabeth catch her breath.

"Make him do that again," she said. Instead, Peter's thumb pressed minutely, easing Neal back a little until they could make eye contact.

"If you say no, we stop," Peter said. "If El says no, we stop. No questions, no negotiating. We stop."

The pressure on his jaw eased, enough for Neal to talk.

"What if you say no?" Neal asked.

Peter's lips curved upwards, the way they did when he was most pleased with Neal.

"I'm not going to say no," he said.

He slipped away from Neal, kissed Elizabeth once, and walked towards the stairs. Neal watched him, wide-eyed, stunned by this little piece of intel. He shouldn't be, really. It should have been expected. When Peter went into something, he went in all the way.

Elizabeth took Neal's hand, patted it, and grinned at him.

"He gets that way," she said, pulling him along slowly.

"Yeah, I know," Neal replied, and followed.

Upstairs, the lights were on; Peter was standing in the bedroom, chin lifted, unknotting his tie. Elizabeth left Neal hesitating in the doorway and crossed to Peter, helping him pull it off. Peter caught her around the waist and kissed her -- deep, proprietary, certainly not the quick pecks Neal had seen them give each other in the course of their everyday lives. He watched, uncertain he was welcome anymore, because this was something else. This was ten years of two people together. He saw the tie unspool from Elizabeth's fingers and fall to the floor.

Then Peter glanced up and caught his eye.

"Oh, now you're nervous?" Peter asked.

"Just enjoying the view," Neal replied, but he didn't come forward. That was Peter and Elizabeth's bed. That was Elizabeth, pulling off the bathrobe she'd been wearing.

Peter in his dress shirt, toeing off his work shoes. Elizabeth in a plain blue nightgown, undoing the knotted laces at the top of it. Neal, standing at the threshold still, bruised, with a white bandage around his arm and a tracker on his leg. One of these things is not like the others...

But then Elizabeth took his hand again, tugging him along. Neal, by habit, catalogued escape routes in his head until he realized he was standing in front of Peter, and Peter was touching him again, one hand on his uninjured shoulder, the other on his waist.

"I think," Peter said, slowly, "you owe Elizabeth something, don't you?"

Neal nodded, uncertain where this was going but fast approaching the blank, mindless place where he didn't have to be three steps ahead or hide his reactions or fake his way through. He just had to listen, and do as he was told.

"Because we've had something, and she hasn't," Peter continued, and it clicked over in Neal's brain. He turned to look at Elizabeth, wondering if she would even let him.

Elizabeth smiled and shrugged out of her nightdress. She wasn't wearing anything underneath. Neal hadn't seen a naked woman in almost five years, and Elizabeth Burke was beautiful.

He wanted to sculpt her. Caffrey's study for _Desire, #3: Woman At Bedside_. Maybe something in Brancusi's vein, all curve of breast and hip.

"Stop thinking," Peter said in his ear. The hand on his shoulder slid around to cup the back of his neck.

"She's -- " Neal couldn't figure out how to say it.

" -- my wife," Peter said, grip tightening just slightly. "Respect her."

"Honey, you're scaring him," Elizabeth said. She didn't seem at all unsettled by Neal's gaze. "Neal, sweetheart, come here."

Peter let him go and Neal almost stumbled. He felt graceless, fumbling, as he put an arm around her waist and kissed her again. He cautiously cupped one of her breasts, and she sighed happily. God, if he could get her to do that again he could come just from kissing her.

Her hands were warm on his chest when she pushed him back, and then she gave him the most wicked smile he'd ever seen on her.

"So?" she asked. "You think Peter's right?"

"He usually is," Neal said, encouraged by the smile. Elizabeth edged back, onto the bed. Neal cupped a thigh to help her up, then slid his hand up over her stomach admiringly. He kissed between two of his spread fingers and then worked upwards for a little while, mapping out the curve of her ribcage with his tongue, nosing along her breasts.

"Neal," she said, head tipping back a little when he licked one of her nipples experimentally. It was good to know what a woman liked. "If you don't -- "

"Okay," he said, almost against her skin. He moved back down her body, nudging one knee aside with an elbow. He felt Peter's hand on the back of his head, the same wordless approving gesture Peter had given him the night Neal had sucked him off in the Taurus.

Really, this was an unfair deal. A hasty, selfish blowjob in a car was _nothing_ compared to what Neal was going to do to Elizabeth.

"Stop. Thinking." Peter's voice in his ear again. Elizabeth huffed impatiently. Neal bowed his head and smiled against her skin.

He'd almost forgotten how this felt, how intimate it was, how women _tasted_. When he licked, a broad sweep of his tongue, Elizabeth arched her back and gasped. He settled a hand on her thigh and nuzzled against her, breathing warm air across her skin, nipping gently with his teeth -- oh, that got a reaction, and when he looked up briefly he saw Peter was bent over her. One hand still on Neal's head, Peter was kissing his wife, and the heat of it was stunning.

Peter's fingers tightened in his hair, a subtle command, and Neal bent back to Elizabeth's body, intent on coaxing another moan out of her so that he could hear Peter's mouth muffle it. Elizabeth bucked her hips, and Neal slid his hand up from thigh to stomach to keep her settled. One of her hands covered his.

He let his thoughts drift away from any real intent, focused on the slick damp skin under his mouth. Wonderful serenity; the only thing in the world was to please Elizabeth, and nothing else mattered, nothing else had to matter right now.

"Neal -- oh -- " Elizabeth's fingers dug into the back of his hand, sharp and thrilling. "Peter -- Neal -- "

Peter was back, then, bent over Neal's ear. "Good," he murmured. "Good, Neal, that's -- "

Neal didn't hear the rest, or whether Peter even finished his sentence. Elizabeth cried out sharply and her clit fluttered against his tongue, orgasm flowing over her, muscles tense under his hand. Neal leaned back a little and rested his chin on her thigh, staring up at her, watching the last of her bliss ebb away. He cut his eyes to Peter, who was watching Elizabeth with unadulterated pleasure.

"Oh my god," Elizabeth said eventually.

"Hot?" Peter asked, voice deep and amused. She curled her fingers and Peter went back to kiss her, leaving Neal to watch again. Peter was still fully dressed; Neal still had his trousers and his shoes on.

Elizabeth seemed to be eagerly working on Peter's shirt, though, as they kissed, so Neal sat up and dangled a leg over the side of the bed, pulling the other one up so he could tug his shoe off. He had both of them off when he felt Peter's touch his shoulder, and then Peter was crouching in front of him, a warm hand resting on his calf.

Neal watched as Peter edged the leg of his trouser up, over the slight bulge of the tracker, and then edged the tracker up too, fingers cradled under the strap so that it didn't pull against Neal's skin as he slid the sock off underneath it. His hand curved around the slight red band on Neal's ankle where the tracker sometimes chafed.

"It doesn't hurt," Neal said, which was true. He hardly noticed it, only the weight of it against the spur of his tibia. Sometimes, it was reassuring. Peter's thumb brushed the darker spot there.

"Your own damn fault," Peter said, but he didn't sound like his heart was in it. Elizabeth sat up slowly and kissed Neal's shoulder. One of her hands drifted down to rub the shell of Peter's ear.

"Are we even now?" she asked, looking past Neal's arm to Peter, who was leaning into her touch again. "Because I really think you boys should take your pants off."

The look on Peter's face was difficult to interpret -- amused resignation was the closest label Neal could find to put to it, as if he had spent their whole married life together doing what Elizabeth told him to do but knew that most of the time he'd be pleasantly surprised by the outcome. He straightened, hands going to his belt-buckle, and Neal reached out to help him. Peter caught him by the wrist briefly.

"Take your own pants off," he said, but there was a smile hinting around his lips. Neal wanted to, but instead he curled his palms over his thighs and watched the slide of leather through Peter's belt-loops, the pop of the button underneath.

He didn't realise Elizabeth had been working on his belt until he felt her hand brush his stomach, sliding under the waistband of his underwear. He whined again when her fingers slipped down his cock.

"Okay?" she asked, rubbing gently. Neal didn't take his eyes from where Peter was stepping out of his trousers.

"It's been a while," Neal admitted. He'd seen Peter naked before -- well, the parts that counted, anyway -- but that had been at night, in shadows, and he'd been frantic and trying to keep Peter from cracking him on the head and throwing him out of the car. Peter turned away to take his underwear off, which was kind of annoyingly charming. Elizabeth's fingers tightened and Neal moaned, jerking forward, eyes closing on the afterimage of Peter mid-movement.

Caffrey's study for _Desire, #12: Man, Turning._

He inched backwards onto the bed a little, trousers sliding down his hips, and felt Elizabeth let go of him to hook a thumb in his underwear and slide that down, too. Peter gathered up the clothing and swept it to the floor, kneeling over Neal and then, when Neal fell back on his elbows, bending over to kiss him.

"Sweetheart," Elizabeth said softly.

"Mm?" Peter asked, into Neal's mouth. Neal really hoped he wasn't going to stop kissing him, because as long as Peter was kissing him he didn't have to think. Peter was really, really good at this. 

"His bruises," Elizabeth reminded them. Neal could give a damn about his bruises just at the moment but it was true the burns on his arm were making his muscles ache. Peter pulled away -- Neal tried to follow and got a hand on his chest for his pains -- and then rolled over onto his back, Neal half-lying on one side of him, Elizabeth kneeling on the other. One of Peter's hands nudged his hip and Neal, hardly believing his luck, straddled Peter's thighs.

"So," Peter said. "Neal Caffrey on top. That's..."

"Ironic?" Neal asked. Elizabeth giggled.

"Is it?" Peter said, staring up at him. Neal bent and pressed his face to Peter's throat.

"Anything you want," he said, surprised when no pang of embarrassment or shame hit him over the admission. Why should he be ashamed? Peter owned him, and they both knew it. "Anything, Peter. Tell me -- "

"Shh, easy." Peter's hand stroked his hair again. No -- Elizabeth's. Her fingernails were a little longer, gently scratching at his hairline. He arched up into it. Peter's arm was wrapped around his waist, and when he tightened it a little it was enough to bring them together. Peter's cock brushed his thigh.

"El?" Peter asked. Neal licked along his collarbone, hiding the gesture with a turned head.

"Gentleman's choice," Elizabeth said. Neal turned to look at her and found her watching them with wide eyes. She looked like she was enjoying herself. Well, Peter had said she liked the idea of her husband and other men in theory; hopefully they were living up to the fantasy.

"Like this," Peter told him, adjusting the way they fit so that their bodies were almost flush. Neal arched and pushed, bucking against him, eager to prove that he'd done this before, he could be good at it for Peter. Peter laughed and then cut off with a groan, eyes closing, hips pushing up against Neal's. Peter's hand wrapped around both of them together and pulled -- Peter was touching him, Peter was everywhere, Elizabeth still had a hand on the back of his head and Peter's pace was a little bit brutal...

Neal came embarrassingly fast, in the middle of a kiss, biting down on Peter's lip. Elizabeth held him through it, Peter still pushing him with each pulse of pleasure up through his body, until he grunted and collapsed against Peter's chest.

"I didn't," he managed, the aftershocks still rolling through him. God, it had felt so good to touch someone, to be with someone else who wanted to touch him after years of no privacy and no touch in prison, years of waiting. "I didn't mean to, I -- "

"It's okay," Peter said, interrupting him, soothing little hums in his chest. "It's okay, shh."

"I wanted to -- "

"Neal," Peter said. Neal had never been so glad of the chain in his life; Peter's voice silenced him completely. Elizabeth's fingers stilled against his skin.

"Some other time, I'll make you wait," Peter said. Elizabeth made a noise. Neal couldn't have agreed more.

Peter kissed him and then gently rolled him away, onto his side -- they were both messy with Neal's come, but Peter was still hard, and Neal watched as Elizabeth pulled him down on top of her. They fit together, Peter and Elizabeth, and he wouldn't have credited that anyone could be so easy together except there they were. Elizabeth had her thighs hooked at Peter's hips and Peter was moving slowly, though Neal knew he had to be desperate. Slow, confident, watching her face to gauge what she felt, dipping his head to kiss her, and Elizabeth said...something, Neal couldn't hear, too busy drowsing in the glow of orgasm and watching them make love.

He wasn't just a spectator; spectators might see Peter and Elizabeth eat breakfast together or go shopping or bicker about chores, but not this. A voyeur wouldn't have been allowed into their bed to see this. Which meant Neal was part of it, something nobody even had a name for, not a participant just at the moment but inside the little sphere of Peter-and-El nonetheless. Peter-and-El-and-Neal. He belonged here. All he had to do at the moment was see this, and rest.

He put a hand out to touch what he could -- drifting down from Peter's waist to Elizabeth's hip, feeling her move, feeling the skin shift as her muscles tensed there, as she arched her head back and cried out. Peter came with a low, almost relieved moan. For a little while, the room was silent.

Finally, Peter drew a deep breath.

"I need a tissue," he said. Elizabeth giggled again. Neal burst out laughing. Peter lifted his head and glared. "So do you."

"Here, hon," Elizabeth said, elbowing him off her a little so she could reach for the bedside table. Neal was still laughing when Peter's hand pushed him over, the swipe of rough tissue raising gooseflesh on his skin. Neal, feeling greedy, leaned up to kiss Elizabeth before Peter settled in again, on his side, Elizabeth draped over his shoulder. They both looked at Neal like he was the best Christmas present ever.

"See? This was a good idea," Elizabeth said. Peter tugged on Neal's hip and Neal obligingly shuffled forward enough to curl into Peter's body, secure there. "My god, Neal, you're built like a Greek sculpture," she added.

"I work out," Neal mumbled sleepily. He heard Peter laugh. Caffrey's study for _Desire, #7: The Bed._

"If it's a Greek sculpture, he probably stole it," Peter said, and Elizabeth laughed too, which was the last thing Neal heard before dropping into deep, dreamless sleep.

***

Peter woke the next morning to find there was an extra naked person in his bed. It wasn't the most surprising thing he'd ever encountered on waking up, but it was right up there in the top ten.

Elizabeth was on his right, pulled a little away from him in sleep. On his left, Neal was sprawled on his stomach, left arm thrown across Peter's waist, face smashed into one of the pillows. Peter touched the bandage on Neal's arm, making sure it was still secure. Last night had been...athletic. Neal stirred, turning his head until his nose bumped into Peter's shoulder.

"Peter?" he mumbled, arm tightening.

"Yeah," Peter said.

"Thought so," Neal sounded triumphant, and only about half-awake.

"Should I be glad you didn't say Kate?" Peter asked. Neal curled closer.

"Kate wore Chanel to bed. Like Marilyn Monroe," he muttered. "Loved the classics. Always smelled like it."

"I don't smell like Chanel," Peter told him. Past tense Kate. Interesting.

"Nope. Unwashed Fed," Neal replied. Peter elbowed him gently. Neal's eyes opened. His hair, which Peter thought just _grew_ perfect, was sticking out all over his head. "Hey, we just had a lot of sex."

"You know, that's why I like you, you're so observant," Peter told him.

"I saw Elizabeth naked," Neal continued, apparently processing extra-slow this morning.

"She's still naked," Peter said, pointing over his shoulder at his (gently snoring) wife.

"That's the first time I've had sex since you put me away," Neal added, pushing himself up to sit on the bed.

"True love waits," Peter drawled. Neal grinned.

"Can we do it again?"

Peter threw an arm over his eyes. "Not this morning. We have to work. I need a shower," he added, edging around Neal and off the bed. Neal caught his wrist; Peter, feeling magnanimous, bent back down to kiss him. "Entertain Elizabeth," he said, and went to prepare for the day.

When he emerged from the shower, Neal and Elizabeth were still in bed -- Neal was sitting where he'd left him, talking, probably telling some kind of joke. El was propped half-upright, listening with a smile on her face. Peter leaned in the doorway and watched.

This would never have worked if Neal didn't understand that Elizabeth was the most important thing in the world to him. After ten years maybe he took it a little for granted sometimes, but Elizabeth was still the centre of his thoughts, the best part of his day. If Neal hadn't understood that -- if Neal didn't see the reason for it -- then it would have been something shameful, another theft.

It still might not work. Peter had grave doubts about this whole situation, and only time would make those pass or bring them to light. Neal was still chasing Kate. If he found her he'd run, and that would hurt like fuck; if he found out Kate was playing him, as Peter suspected, it would break Neal's heart and that would hurt Peter too.

But he was confident that this, here in this room, was not a game to Neal. And he hoped that if Neal had the choice to run, he would remember this and think twice.

"Hey, baby," El said, noticing him in the doorway. "Neal was telling me about training carrier pigeons."

Peter came forward and rested a hand on Neal's shoulder, bending down. "If you turn my wife into a criminal, I will end you."

Neal grinned at him. "Have you met your wife? She wouldn't need my help."

"Okay, boys," Elizabeth said, sliding out of the bed and pulling her bathrobe on. "I need to be at the florist's at nine-thirty. Peter, are you taking Neal home?"

"I should change," Neal said, looking regretfully at the clothing still strewn all over the floor. "Can't we just skip school today?"

"Paperwork," Peter told him, walking to the dresser and pulling on a t-shirt. "Plus it'll give us time to figure out what to tell anyone who noticed your tracking anklet was at my house all night."

Neal snorted, untangling his trousers. "I had a rough day. You let me sleep on your couch. Problem solved."

"Hmm." Peter watched in the mirror by the dresser as Neal pulled his trousers on.

"You got a better idea?" Neal asked. "Can I borrow one of your shirts?"

"Yeah." Peter tossed him a dress shirt, buttoning his own down his chest. "It's going to be an ongoing issue, you know."

"Well, I hope so," Neal said. He was grinning at Peter in the mirror. "I'd invite you guys back to June's place, but the bed's kind of small and Moz tends to come and go without warning."

"We'll figure it out," Peter said, buckling his belt. He reached for a tie, but Neal took it out of his hands and turned him, looping it around his neck. "I can tie my own tie, Neal."

"Let me do this for you," Neal said, carefully looking at the knot he was tying and not Peter's face. "You always tie four-in-hand. Windsor looks better."

"This is very weird," Peter told him.

"You'll get used to it, it's not that complicated -- "

"I didn't mean the knot. I meant you tying it. Around my neck."

Neal glanced up at him, then back down at the tie. "You've got a tracker on my ankle. Elizabeth's got a ring on your finger. You've got one on hers. Gimme something here, Peter."

Peter considered him. Neal was waiting, the knot half-complete.

"Yeah, okay," he said, lifting his chin. Neal finished the loop and snugged it up against Peter's throat.

"Let's go be heroes," Neal said. Peter shook his head, but he followed Neal down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> Brancusi's **[Maiastra](http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/51450.html?mulR=19148)** and **[Three Penguins](http://www.philamuseum.org/collections/permanent/51529.html?mulR=5424)**.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter came up with him when they got to June's place, ostensibly to make sure he only took the ten minutes he promised. Neal knew that, in reality, Peter was just a sucker for June's coffee.

"Good morning, boys," June called, when they emerged onto the terrace. Coffee and fruit salad; Neal stole a grape and popped it in his mouth. "I was beginning to worry when you didn't come home last night, Neal."

"Wasn't feeling so hot," Neal said, glancing at Peter, who was hiding behind a coffee cup. "Peter let me stay at his place."

"That's sweet of you," June told Peter, passing him the sports section.

"El made me," Peter said. "Neal, the office -- "

"Right," Neal said, and ducked into the guest suite. Moz was asleep on his couch. "Mozzie!"

"No taxation without representation!" Mozzie shouted, startling awake. Neal dug in the closet. It was a pinstripes and loud tie kind of day. "Hey! Where the hell were you, man?"

"Stayed at Peter's. I texted you," Neal said.

"You texted me that you were alive and talked to Alex," Moz retorted. "Then you fell off the radar."

"Gimme a break," Neal said, pulling off Peter's shirt. "Look, I got tased."

He tugged the bandage free from his arm -- it'd just get gross in the shower anyway -- and showed off his wounds. Moz looked impressed.

"Why'd you stay with the Suit?" he asked, still suspicious.

"Why not?" Neal replied, laying out his clothes. "Hey, do you mind? I need to get a shower."

"Far be it from me to hinder your personal hygiene," Moz said. "What'd you hear from Alex?"

Neal tipped his head at the terrace, where Peter was watching them over the edge of the sports page.

"Right. We'll talk later," Moz whispered, tapping the side of his nose.

In the shower, Neal let the water run over him for a while, half-regretting what it was washing away -- traces of Peter and Elizabeth, the smell of their bedsheets. On the other hand, the grime of the past two days was sluicing off as well, and Neal was more than happy to be rid of that. His muscles still hurt from being thrown around by Wilkes's goons.

He cautiously probed around the edges of the barrier he'd put up, in his mind, between Kate and the rest of his life. What he'd done last night, running off without his tracker, that was for Kate. What he'd done later, with Peter and Elizabeth, that was not about Kate. It was something he'd needed like he needed to breathe. He didn't like the feeling, because now he wanted things he had never wanted before.

Neal wanted a lot of things. Beautiful art, money, prestige, power -- Kate. He wanted Kate more than anything. But now he also wanted a roadblock to all of those: a place in someone's life, a place he could rest. A place specifically in Peter and Elizabeth's life. He'd slept _so deeply_ in their bed. He'd knotted Peter's tie to lay a claim to him, to them.

He'd cheated on Kate. No getting around it. No lie he told himself would fix that. None of the truths, either.

He would make it right. He could set the world to rights, he just had to be smart enough and fast enough. When he got the music box and got Kate he'd make sure she spent the rest of her life happy, every minute of it, with him. He wouldn't need to section his life up; Kate would be his life, like Elizabeth was for --

No -- that was wrong, a part of him said, Elizabeth wasn't Peter's life. The most important part of it, he understood that, but even taken together they were separate people. Elizabeth had forgiven his...his inevitability with Peter, because she was confident of Peter's love, but it had been her decision.

Neal rubbed his head, trying to force his thoughts into coherence. He'd cheated on Kate, and Kate would not forgive so wholly and freely as Elizabeth had, if he told her. Even if he could make her understand that he needed this one thing, she had a right to demand amends. Whatever they were, he'd make them, because he owed her, but he needed this. He would do what he had to in order to survive, in order to rescue her. If that included Peter and Elizabeth as a way to keep him from going crazy, he would let himself have that. Kate wasn't the one playing three sides at once, and Kate wasn't here, and it wasn't fair that he had to spend every waking moment trying to be the smartest guy in the room against people who held all the cards.

He had to add a new division to his life: Work time. Kate time. Peter-and-El time.

Funny how much those divisions were beginning to feel like lies. After all, if you put up a barrier, it hides something you don't want to see --

"Caffrey!" Peter yelled through the door. "Did you run down the drain?"

"Coming," Neal yelled back. "Keep your pants on!"

Peter was right, though. They did have a lot to do that day -- reports, both individual and group, another debriefing (Neal was getting annoyingly used to those) and a mandatory interview with the on-staff psych. The hour-long session with the psych was fun; Neal faked being fake-fine, and then breaking down, and threw in some tears for effect, and then said he felt _much better_ , and that he was ready to put this behind him and move on. He didn't think the guy totally swallowed it, but he promised to come in if he was having trouble, and got cleared for continuing duty.

At the end of the day he lurked around Peter's doorway until Peter looked up and gestured for him to come in.

"Wrapping up?" Neal asked, as Peter shuffled papers into a pile.

"Just about. How'd your therapy go?"

Neal grimaced. "Fine. Did you have to go?"

"I don't need therapy. I wasn't the one who was kidnapped."

"I don't want therapy. It's not my first con," Neal replied.

"Did he clear you?"

"Yeah. I promised I'd check in if I felt traumatized. He looked like he'd like to dissect my brain."

"Wouldn't we all," Peter murmured, shutting down his computer. He picked up his suitcase and began sliding paperwork into it. "Coming home with me?"

"Two nights running?" Neal asked.

"Clearly you had a difficult experience. You shouldn't be alone," Peter told him, looking grave.

"That excuse isn't gonna work forever," Neal said, putting his hat on. He was making for the door, but Peter hadn't moved. "Coming?"

Peter rested both hands on his suitcase. "You don't have to," he said. "I can take you back to June's. You never have to, Neal."

"Peter." Neal stepped closer, leaning on the desk. "I really, _really_ want to."

Peter smiled. "You want to make that soufflé thing you do?"

Neal grinned at him. "I will totally make the soufflé thing."

"Then let's go," Peter said. "We'll stop by June's, you can pack a bag."

***

When they got to June's place, her granddaughter Samantha was in the downstairs dining room, playing with Bugsy, June's spoiled and much-loved pug. Neal ran up the stairs, leaving Peter alone with June, Samantha, and Bugsy, who sniffed his shoes before deciding Samantha was more interesting.

"How's she doing?" he asked, nodding at Samantha.

"Better, a little," June said, giving her granddaughter a loving look. "We're waiting to hear about a donor any day now."

"That's good news. You'll let us know, right?" Peter asked.

"Of course." June glanced at the stairs. "Is Neal in trouble?"

"Hm? No. Why, do you know something I don't?" Peter asked, smiling.

"You don't usually come in. Twice in one day is a rare treat for us," June added. Behind her, Samantha threw a ball, which rebounded off a nearby doorframe and sent Bugsy skittering across the hardwood floor.

"Neal's staying with El and me again tonight," he said, hoping he sounded less guilty than he felt.

June clucked sympathetically. "Is he having a hard time? After the kidnapping?"

"How did you -- "

"I read the papers. If you know where to look, you can see a lot. I see you and Neal there frequently," she said. Peter cocked his head. "You have some very interesting adventures, Peter."

"We do our best," Peter said absently, wondering how many other people could read between the lines. Probably not many. June had the advantage of experience and an unusual breadth of knowledge about crime. 

"If there's anything I can do..." June spread her hands.

"He'll be fine. You know how Neal is," Peter said, as Neal clattered down the stairs, bag in hand. "Ready?"

"Seeya tomorrow, June," Neal said, kissing her on the cheek. "Hey Sammy!"

"Hi Neal!" Samantha waved.

"Be good for grandma," Neal told her, pointing at her with his hat. She giggled and threw the ball for Bugsy again. Peter rested a hand in the small of his back, guiding him out the door.

They were halfway home before Neal cleared his throat and asked, "You gonna call about my tracker?"

"I called before we left," Peter said, trying to keep a smug note out of his voice.

"That confident, huh?" Neal asked.

"Tell me I'm wrong," Peter replied. Neal was staring at him, his normally light eyes darkening.

"I want to kiss you," Neal said. Peter smiled.

"You want me to crash the Taurus?" he asked. "Save it for when we get home."

"But right after we get home, right? Like, we could grab Elizabeth and go straight upstairs..."

"I believe it's traditional to eat dinner first," Peter told him. Neal looked impatient. "Relax. We have time. It's Friday night, we got nowhere to be tomorrow. This is our life, Neal. Or are you only in it for the sex?"

"The sex is a really important part of it," Neal told him. Peter laughed.

"We'll have a nice dinner. Unwind from the day. See how El's day went. Take a breath," Peter said, and saw Neal inhale sharply, as if it had been an order. "Nobody's going anywhere."

Neal was silent, but he looked restless. Peter tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel.

"You like being told what to do," Peter said.

"No," Neal replied immediately.

"Fine, you like it when I tell you what to do."

No reply. Peter grinned.

"When we get home," Peter said, resting a hand on Neal's fidgeting arm to quiet him, "we'll kiss El hello, and you're going to make dinner. I'll stay with you in the kitchen if you want. How do you pair that with wine?"

"Dry white," Neal answered. "Saint-Véran. Or French Chardonnay, no oak."

"I think we've got some Chardonnay. We'll eat dinner, talk about the day. After that, you follow my lead. You switch off, okay?" Peter said. Neal was breathing hard. "Neal?"

"Yeah," Neal said.

"Try anything before I say so and I swear I'll handcuff you to something and make you watch."

Neal gave him a sharp look, but when Peter didn't continue he sat back, and then almost visibly relaxed. His breathing slowed. He looked different without eight kinds of tension stringing him taut -- less smooth, less poised, infinitely easier to read.

Six years ago, Neal Caffrey had seemed like a ruthlessly clever crook, uncrackable, deft and skilled. When Peter had been chasing him the only reason he'd been confident of a collar was that he had to be or he'd have faltered and lost the thread. It was almost shocking to see Neal drop off his self-imposed pedestal, and to know that for it to happen, he needed Peter to give the order. The power implicit in that was -- frightening. Exhilarating.

If he was very, very careful -- and very lucky -- he might still pull Neal back from the suicidal leap of stealing the music box.

***

Elizabeth was on the phone with a vendor when Peter and Neal walked into the house. She gave them a little wave before returning to writing down quotes, watching out of the corner of her eye as they took their coats off and Peter shepherded Neal into the kitchen, Satchmo following them eagerly.

By the time she was finished, there were clanks and clicks coming from the kitchen, the sound of food being prepared. She set down the phone and put her head through the doorway. Peter was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, looking very much at ease; Neal was whisking liquid in a bowl.

"Is he making the soufflé?" she asked in a whisper. "Please say yes."

"Hey sweetie," Peter said, bending to kiss her cheek. "He's making the soufflé."

She saw Neal watching them sidelong as he worked. Elizabeth crossed to where he was adding the eggs and leaned up a little to kiss him hello too. He gave her a grin.

"We could skip dinner," she suggested. Neal pulled a face.

"Peter says dinner first," he said.

"Oh he does, does he?" El asked, raising an eyebrow at Peter. It wasn't like him to make decisions for the both of them -- but, on the other hand, Peter knew Neal better than she did. The boys were working through something, or possibly Peter was working Neal through something, and she knew how precarious Neal's position in the world was at the moment. She went back to Peter and stood in front of him, mirroring his pose, until he grinned and let his arms drop, wrapping them around her waist, swaying her against him.

"How was your day?" Peter asked, and she turned in his arms so that she could lean against his chest and watch Neal work. It was fascinating, in a way; Neal's hands had stolen paintings, forged everything under the sun, handled objects worth millions of dollars -- explored crime scenes -- and now they were slicing tomatoes to make her dinner.

"Good," she said, wrapping her own hands around Peter's. Peter's hands held guns. They'd once put zipcuffs on Neal. "Landed a new account."

"Oh?" Peter sounded pleased.

"Yeah, Woodbeam Bank downtown," El said, frowning a little. "They want catered First Mondays for their big investors."

" _Really,_ " Neal said, without looking up from the tomatoes.

"Caffrey," Peter growled. Neal shot him an innocent smile.

"I like bankers," he said, licking juice off his thumb.

"You like not being in prison more," El told him.

"It's not my fault I'm so charismatic people want to invest money in my tragically unsuccessful land ventures," Neal continued.

"Woodbeam Bank," Peter reminded El.

"Yeah," she said, while Neal rummaged in a cupboard. "The venue's awful -- they want to hold it in the lobby -- but it's a beautiful building. We're going to have to rent some panels to block off the desks. Probably tables. I have to look into their loading dock situation," she added, making a mental note.

"North side, down the alley to the right," Neal said, slightly muffled due to his head being inside the pantry. "Three surveillance cameras and the cops cruise it to make sure nobody parks there."

"Neal!" Peter called. Neal withdrew from the pantry and looked at him.

"What? I'm not going to hit it," Neal said. "There are easier targets and knocking off banks is boring anyway."

"Hon, what are you looking for?" Elizabeth asked, before Peter and Neal could start bickering about why "boring" was an inappropriate criterion for whether or not to commit a crime.

"Olive oil," Neal said.

"Try the far cupboard," she suggested. Neal ducked around the pantry door and rummaged some more. Eventually they heard a soft _Ha!_ and Neal emerged triumphant. She felt Peter nosing against her ear.

"How does this _work?_ " he asked softly. Not so much asking about the function, she realized, as about how it felt comfortable, already, to have Neal in their kitchen, and how it would feel to have him in their bed later.

"We make it work," she said. Neal looked up from where he was drizzling oil over the tomatoes. The expression on his face was equal parts envious and amorous. She felt a little like a painting he wanted to steal.

The last time they'd eaten a dinner Neal had cooked, Neal had refused to sit anywhere but the floor behind the bookcase column, afraid -- well, perhaps not afraid, perhaps...concerned -- that he'd be seen by someone, and then they'd all be in trouble. This time he sat at the table with them, slipping bits of tomato down to Satchmo as he mostly watched them eat. Several times, even while one of them was talking, she caught Peter giving Neal silent commands, looking pointedly at the food still on Neal's plate or the fork in his hand. The message was clear: _dinner's not over until you eat_. Neal seemed to be pushing back, a passive-aggressive _if you make me wait I'm not going to enjoy it_ sulk, but at some point while she was talking about table-dressing Peter apparently won, because Neal started to eat in earnest. Maybe hunger simply overcame stubbornness. Or, possibly, it was the second glass of wine. Third? She'd only had two, but Peter had opened a second bottle. He seemed to be enjoying a leisurely dinner.

Whatever it was, between the food and wine, Neal's eyes were brighter, and his shoulders relaxed a fraction, not quite as solidly set as they usually were. When she asked him why bank jobs were boring (oh the _glare_ she got from Peter) he launched eagerly into a story about a criminal he allegedly knew who used to pull heists blindfolded for the extra kick.

"I don't believe you," she said, laughing. Neal, slouched in the chair across from her, was grinning.

"All true," he said. He played with his mostly-empty wineglass, turning it around on the table.

"Do you miss it?" Elizabeth asked. Peter looked at her. Neal seemed to be thinking about it.

"A case is just a con from the flip side," he said finally, which was not quite an answer, really. "I don't miss always looking over my shoulder." Again -- not really a lie, but somewhere in between, because according to Peter, Neal still was. Can't miss what you're still doing. "Do I miss being chased by your husband? No."

Ah. That was the truth. Neal shifted slightly; she knew, without looking, that he was rubbing one foot against his ankle, against the tracker cinched there.

She and Peter knew each other, every inch, every breath; she wouldn't swap that for the world, wouldn't give her husband up to anyone else, because she mostly felt that nobody was worth him. Peter, she knew, didn't understand this and never would, which was part of why she loved him. To Neal, they were both new and exciting, they were mysteries to solve, but they were also more. They were a place for him, something she didn't think he'd ever had before. Neal needed them. To make someone like Neal Caffrey need you, that was special. Enough to give up a piece of Peter and of herself in order to gain.

Peter looked like he'd been gut-punched by Neal's admission. Elizabeth touched his leg.

"Why don't you take the dishes?" she asked. Peter looked at her, thoughtfully, then nodded.

A girl could get used to this.

He gathered her plate and his own, set Neal's on top of them, and then leaned over Neal, something akin to looming.

"Go with Elizabeth," he said, and kissed the crown of Neal's head. Elizabeth stood up and took Peter's place when he went into the kitchen, tugging on Neal's arm to get him to stand. He followed her quietly up the stairs, holding onto her hand the way he had when she'd picked him up from the hospital after he'd been shot. Peter's voice on the phone that day had been close to frantic. _El, I can't leave, I promised Neal I'd come get him, you have to go. Please, honey, he's been shot._

In the bedroom, Neal stood quietly, watching her, but there was that look on his face again -- like he wanted to slip the guards and defuse the alarms and abscond with her. She reached up and touched the knot of his tie, but it wouldn't come loose until the collar bar was removed. She undid it, then the clip that held the tie to his shirt, setting them on the shelf over the fireplace.

"You have too many pins," she said, as she removed the cufflinks at his wrists.

"The price of style," he told her, lifting one slightly-more-free hand to sweep through her hair.

"Peter doesn't care about style," she said.

"Yeah, I've seen his suits," Neal replied, which made her laugh.

"Peter," she said, moving into the curve of Neal's arm, inside it so that his hand cupped the back of her head, "cares about brains. You know what he said, when you broke out?"

"God damn Neal Caffrey?" Neal tried.

"He said _He's smart. You know how I like smart._ " She tugged at his tie, pulling it loose, and he lifted a hand to work the buttons of the shirt open.

"That explains his wife," Neal said.

She gave him a slightly cynical grin. "You say the nicest things."

"It's my natural charm," he told her.

"Why Peter, Neal?" she asked, and he frowned. "There are plenty of people you could have for a smile."

"I can't have him for a smile," Neal said. "He caught me. There's this place in my head he gets into, I don't know how to do it. And because of you."

She tilted her head at him. "Me?"

"In my world people don't get married and have houses and dogs and nice dinners in their houses with their dogs," Neal said. "Kate and me were never like this. I've never seen this. You -- " he looked frustrated. "There's...a time. I love the game, I love the puzzles, but there's a little time when I don't have to be playing anyone. And it feels like...you're that time, for Peter. And he's that time for you. I want in."

"You sound uncertain," she said, rubbing a thumb across his collarbone, soothing gently. "What's scaring you?"

"How do you spend your whole lives telling each other the truth?" Neal asked. He looked like he actually didn't know, which was -- heartbreaking, a little.

"Very carefully, and not without fights," she replied.

"And abject apologies, at times," Peter said, from the doorway. Neal turned, looking like he'd been caught out, but Peter was smiling. Elizabeth gave Neal a tiny shove. Peter caught him by the shoulder, fingers sliding up to his throat -- this was some gesture they'd developed, she wasn't sure when, but it was part of their language with each other.

"No more thinking," Peter said softly. "No more tonight, okay?"

Neal nodded against Peter's hand. Elizabeth watched her husband kiss this...bizarre, desperate, locked-away man who'd walked into their life as a casefile and been dragged further in by Peter as a friend. Sometimes, especially early in their relationship when she was still wrapping her head around her boyfriend's ex-boyfriends, she'd wondered what Peter and Mike had looked like together. The reality of Peter and Neal was stunning.

When they parted, Neal licked his lips, eyes closed.

"Are we going to have sex now?" he asked. Elizabeth covered her mouth. "We're going to have sex now, right?"

Peter grinned and shoved him backwards, a little more roughly than he would someone less capable of handling themselves. "Yes," he said. "Elizabeth?"

"Nobody has even _started_ undressing me," she announced. The matching predatory grins on the boys' faces were very promising indeed.

***

Sometime in the night, after the sex -- Peter was going to have to step up his workout routine if this kept up -- but before they slept, he looked over at Neal and saw utter, blissful blankness on his face. He looked almost high on it; not surprising, given the way he'd reacted to the full focus of two other people on him.

Neal, apparently, loved touch. He really loved it. Possibly more than he wanted orgasm, Neal wanted to touch: nuzzling full-bodied against Elizabeth, fingers never still when he could smooth them over Peter's skin, refusing the delicate offer of a blowjob (just as well, Peter had never felt he was very good at those) and reaching instead for an arm to cling onto while they kissed, places to stroke and explore. Multiplied by two, and Neal sometimes looked like he didn't have enough hands. He did pretty well with the two he did have, though.

Peter hadn't been with a man, not counting Neal's demanding overtures, in almost twelve years. Neal hadn't been with anyone for over four. Elizabeth seemed the only really comfortable member of the party, fitting into the two of them in unexpected ways, good ways, occasionally surprising ways.

And a tiny part of him would admit that perhaps he took a little pleasure in giving her a show. Neal certainly seemed to. Under Peter's hands, under Peter's control, Neal was obedient and passionate and completely shameless. He was willing to do anything to get another little hit off Peter or Elizabeth. Or both at once.

Neal's question had been more telling than Neal or possibly even Elizabeth realized. _How do you spend your whole lives telling each other the truth?_

He wondered, not for the first time, what lies Neal had told Kate, explicit or implicit. He'd often wondered if Kate knew what she had or what she was playing with, but perhaps Kate hadn't even been allowed to see. Had Matthew Keller? Keller was cruel, a lifetime's worth of cruel, so even if he'd been able to see, he probably wouldn't have bothered. Peter firmly believed Keller should never have been allowed anywhere near the boy Neal must have been.

But Kate...Kate might have believed, might still believe, that Neal was bigger, stronger, faster, better, _everything_ more than he was or than any one person possibly could be. Neal was very, very good at lying, especially to himself. There was an appeal in his skill, certainly, and it was useful to Peter in their work. But the appeal only existed so long as he could see the truth underneath it. Truths like tonight, when Neal went wordless and brainless and let himself go. If Kate ever managed to get him in that state, she was smarter than Peter gave her credit for.

"Good?" Neal asked, when he saw Peter watching him. He reached across Elizabeth, between them, and brushed the backs of his fingers over Peter's arm.

"Good," Peter said.

"Am I good?" Neal pressed, and Peter heard Elizabeth snort. His arm was around her waist, but he stretched his hand out enough to rest it on Neal's stomach. Neal tensed momentarily before relaxing into the touch.

"You're spoiled," Peter told him.

"Don't listen to him," Elizabeth said. "You're good, Neal."

Neal stretched up languidly to kiss her. Peter kissed the back of her neck.

"Go to sleep, hon," she told Neal. He obediently closed his eyes, and Peter felt Elizabeth's breathing even out. He lay awake until he was sure they were both asleep, and only then did he let himself follow.

***

Neal's phone rang at eight in the morning, just as he was getting out of the shower. He rummaged in the pocket of his trousers for it, trying to untangle the legs, until Peter whistled and held it up, tossing it to him. Mozzie.

"Yeah, what's up?" Neal asked, trying to pull on his underwear, talk on the phone, and make his hair behave all at the same time.

"Where the hell are you, man? Did you move out or something?" Moz asked.

"You're at my place?"

"Yeah, and you're not. Again."

" _Neal? Peter?_ " Elizabeth's voice drifted up the stairs. " _You want some waffles?_ "

"Is that Mrs. Suit?" Moz asked.

"Do we have syrup?" Peter yelled back.

"Who was that?" Moz demanded, as Elizabeth called " _I think so!_ "

"That was Mr. Suit," Neal sighed. Peter gave him a narrow look. He mouthed _Mozzie_ at him.

"Why are you at the Suit Homestead at eight in the morning on a Saturday?" Moz asked.

"Why do you keep coming into my home without my permission at eight in the morning on a Saturday?" Neal retorted.

"First you show up wearing one of the Suit's shirts, now you're having breakfast with them? You don't think that's a little Single White Female?" Moz countered.

"Mozzie, why did you call?" Neal asked.

"I turned up something on your Codex," Moz said. "I think I've got our guy. Well. Our lady."

"I'm listening," Neal said. He pulled Peter away from the mirror by the loop of his belt and bent their heads together so that Peter could hear.

"Okay, I want you to think about the Codex," Moz said.

"I'm thinking," Neal told him.

"Now take away the Latin. Think about the vellum. Who do we know who does vellum like that?"

Neal scrolled through his contacts, mentally. "Two or three people in New York alone. Vellum's not hard, Moz. I can do vellum."

Peter gave Neal a sardonic look.

"Who paints on vellum? You have to mix your own paint for that. Who's the go-to for mixed pigment for vellum?"

Neal tipped his head back a little. He knew a name. "She's still in the game?"

"No. That's my point. She's out of the game. She retired. But she's not dead, you know?"

"Out of the game," Neal said thoughtfully. "So she retired...and got bored?"

"Wouldn't you?"

Neal glanced at Peter. Peter's face said he'd like to know the answer to that question too.

"Nobody really retires," Neal murmured. "What, she started taking students? Advertised on Craigslist?"

"Why not? She stays safe, pockets a commission, never goes near the actual crime. I'm telling you. Find her, find your Codex-maker."

"Thanks Moz. That's awesome. I owe you. I'll see you this afternoon," Neal said, and hung up while Mozzie was trying to circle back around to why Neal was with Peter and Elizabeth on a Saturday morning.

"Who is 'she'?" Peter asked, tilting his head.

Neal tapped the phone against his lips, thoughtfully.

"Neal..." Peter said. It was his _I'm not going to push you but if you don't talk I might stab you_ voice.

Neal turned to him. He was nearly naked; Peter had no shirt on. Downstairs, Elizabeth was making waffles in her pyjamas. It felt stupid to say it.

"How much do you trust me?" he asked. Peter looked annoyed. "To run with a case. A legit case I have no other interests in. Just to chase a lead. I let you listen in," he added, holding up the phone. Peter took it out of his hand and tossed it on the bed.

"Who are you protecting?" he asked.

"Right now? Nobody. I'll tell you if you ask," Neal said. "I'm asking you not to ask, though. Just give me a few days to run this one down myself."

"Nothing illegal," Peter said. They were almost touching. "You document everything. When you can bring the Bureau in, the minute you can bring the Bureau in -- "

"I will, I swear," Neal said.

"Is this gonna be dangerous?" Peter asked. The question caught Neal by surprise.

"I don't think so," he told him, which was as honest as he could be. "If it is, I'll call you in."

Peter held him by the back of the neck, kissed him briefly, and let him go, pulling a polo shirt on. "Run with it. Don't make me regret letting you. You coming down for waffles?" he asked, walking to the top of the stairs.

"Yeah, right down," Neal replied, and went to dig a shirt out of his bag.

***

When Neal walked out onto June's terrace, just past lunchtime, Mozzie was teaching Cindy card tricks under June's indulgent eye.

"No, just -- your pinky, there," Moz said, pointing, and Cindy shuffled the deck and very carefully placed her little finger in the brief. "Subtler. Smoother."

"You're letting him teach her sharping?" Neal asked June, watching in amusement.

"Young women should always know how to make their way in the world," June said. "It's a valuable skill. If Byron were still alive, he'd have made sure all his grandchildren knew this sort of thing."

"I could teach her to forge the classics," Neal offered.

"Cindy's more of a postmodernist," June told him. "If she wants to learn, she'll ask. How are you, dear?"

Neal gave her a reassuring smile. "Well-fed. Slept like a baby. I'm okay, June."

"I'm glad to hear it. Cindy, I think Mr. Haversham and Neal have some business to take care of. We'd better leave them to it."

"Bye, Dante," Cindy said, waving at him as they left.

"She'll never be a card sharp," Mozzie said, as Neal took June's vacated seat.

"She'll never need to be," Neal said.

"You're right. If she's ever helpless and destitute, I will rescue her."

Neal gave him a sardonic look. "Have fun with that. So. Brunhilda?"

"Brunhilda," Moz said, leaning back in his chair.

"You know, I thought she _had_ died."

"Everyone did, for a while," Moz said. "She got mixed up with the Canadians."

Neal eyed him. "The Canadians?" 

"They can be surprisingly vicious when you rip them off for a quarter million and leave plastic Loonies behind," Moz said. "I guess she worked something out, though. We're seeing her for tea."

"What, you called up and made an appointment?" Neal asked.

"No, but I know where she takes tea on Saturday afternoons," Mozzie said.

"Great. Where?"

Moz shook his head. "Not so fast, my friend. First, there's information I want from you."

Neal glanced at him. Most people underestimated Moz; they thought he was a funny, neurotic little man who lived in a fantasy world. And he was. But he was also a genius, he never forgot anything, and if he felt challenged he'd do anything it took to find out what he wanted to know. He was the kind of man who would drop a bug on Satchmo precisely because the idea of bugging the dog was patently ridiculous.

He really didn't want Moz to find out what was going on by bugging Satchmo. The poor man's head might explode.

"Information on what?" Neal asked disarmingly. "You know what I know, Moz, you know that."

"Not everything," Moz replied. He leaned forward. "So. You were breakfasting with the Suits."

"Do we really have to get into it?" Neal asked.

"We wouldn't if you were a better liar," Mozzie said.

"I'm an awesome liar, what are you talking about?"

"If you weren't trying to hide something, you wouldn't be asking not to talk about it," Moz pointed out. "Plus you were wearing the Suit's shirt last time I saw you."

"Will you get over that? Mine had burns in it."

"Tell us what you know," Moz said, pretending to wave a hot poker in front of Neal's face. "Or it's the poker for you!"

Neal tipped his head back, staring up at the sky. You could see a lot of sky from the terrace.

Moz abruptly dropped the act.

"Seriously, man. What is it?" he asked.

"I was getting laid, okay?" Neal said, rubbing his face. "I wasn't just staying over. I was, you know." He lowered his face to raise his eyebrows at Mozzie. "Staying over."

Moz gaped at him. "You're doing Mrs. Suit? He's going to _kill you!_ "

"I'm not -- stop calling her that!"

Moz's gape, if it were possible, got bigger. "You're doing the Suit? Are you out of your mind? Is he making you? He's making you, isn't he. I know a guy who can have him bumped off -- "

"Oh my God, stop, what is wrong with you?" Neal said. "Nobody's making me do anything."

"Wait, if you're doing the Suit, but Mrs. S -- " Mozzie caught his eye and sighed, "Elizabeth was there..."

"This is why I don't tell you stuff," Neal told him. "We do things. Together. All three of us."

There was a pause.

"Wow," Moz said. "I mean. Wow."

"Happy now?" Neal asked.

"Way to go!" Moz answered, holding up his hand for a high five. Neal just looked at him. Moz let his hand drop. "How long?"

"Not long." Neal shrugged.

"What about Kate? Does this mean you're officially turning in your obsessed boyfriend badge?"

"I'm still gonna find Kate. This is just..." Neal hated himself for saying it, but he had to believe it, on some level. "It's a pressure valve."

He stood up, walking past the table almost to the wall of the terrace, shoving his hands in his pockets. Mozzie seemed to be considering things.

"It's like some kind of French New Wave film," Mozzie said finally. Neal turned to give him a questioning look. "Bourgeois couple takes beautiful, troubled artist as lover."

"Ew, no, Moz," Neal wrinkled his nose. "I'm not even sure where to start with the wrong of that."

"Tell me it's inaccurate?"

"Peter and Elizabeth aren't bourgeois. And it's not...like that."

"I don't want to hear details," Moz said hastily.

"Good, because you don't get to," Neal told him, annoyed. "Also, who said I was _troubled?_ Could you maybe be happy for me?"

"Who says I'm not happy for you? I'm not happy you're schtupping The Man -- "

"Augh, Mozzie!"

" -- but if that's what primes your canvas, fine. I'm just saying, I'm pretty sure Anais Nin wrote this story already."

"It's not a story," Neal insisted. "It's my life."

Moz crossed his arms on the table, studying him. "If it makes you happy, I'm all for it," he said, quieter and more serious now. "I just think it's a little weird, that's all."

"What in my life isn't weird?" Neal asked.

"Point." Moz was silent for a moment. "What about the feds?"

"What about them?"

"What happens if they find out?"

"They won't," Neal said. "Who's going to tell them, you? It's fine. Peter said it was fine. Nobody's gonna know."

Mozzie nodded. "I have to ask one more question."

Neal put his hands up in the air, supplicating some unknown god of forgers and thieves. "What?"

"Are you conning them? Because if so it's the best con ever and I totally want to know what your angle is."

Neal sighed and let his hands fall. "It's not a con. It's just this...thing. It's new. I don't know."

Mozzie tilted his head. "It must be the hair. People are such suckers for your hair."

"Yeah. It's the hair, Moz." Neal rolled his eyes. "Can we stop talking about my newly rekindled sex life and focus on the Codex?"

"You're having a threesome with the fed who caught you and his stunningly attractive wife. Sorry if I linger a moment," Moz retorted.

"Brunhilda," Neal reminded him.

"Right. Brunhilda. She has tea every Saturday at the Russian place near Central Park."

"Well," Neal said, "Let's go keep her company."

***

The first time Neal met Brunhilda, he'd put her age at around eighty, but since she didn't appear to have aged since then he was currently at a loss. She was a striking woman, short white hair coiffed stylishly above a narrow, intelligent, slightly hawk-nosed face. Her fingers, thin and delicate, were in the middle of spreading caviar on a blini when Neal walked into the tea room and stopped in front of her table. She looked up, sharp and ready to remonstrate, and then she smiled.

"Little Neal Caffrey," she said, delight filling her voice. "What on Earth are you doing here?"

"Scamming tea," Neal told her, sitting down at the table. "Hiya, Hilda. You remember Mozzie?"

"Of course," Brunhilda said, patting Mozzie's hand as he sat on the other side. "Keeping out of mischief, are we?"

"I try, ma'am," Mozzie said primly. Neal grinned, and her attention swung back to him.

"Look at you, all grown up," she told him. "Last time I saw you, you were all legs and eyes. Prison made a man out of you."

"Oh, you heard about that," Neal said, amused.

"I hear everything. Have some caviar," she offered. He took a bite and made an appropriately appreciative face. "I had heard you were back in New York, but I thought you'd gone straight."

"Like you?" Neal asked. She gave him a narrow-eyed look.

"I'm too old to go running around dodging the cops anymore," she said. "And I can't be bothered to play games with other cons. Give me caviar and hot tea and good company. Although, if you're here..."

"We're looking for someone," Mozzie said, pouring himself tea into a cup a solicitous waiter set on the table as he passed. "Neal?"

"Yeah, thanks," Neal said, holding out another cup. "We're looking for someone who does medieval text work."

"Tell me more," Brunhilda said, resting her chin on her hand.

"A piece turned up. Supposedly a leaf from the Third Codex. You're familiar?"

"Not overly," she said. "What about it?"

"It's great work," Neal said, which was the truth. He sipped his tea. "I've had a look at it. If I wasn't trying to find fault, I'd believe it myself. Illuminated calligraphy on vellum. You know anyone who does that kind of work?"

She nibbled on a finger sandwich. "Do you know, some men came to my flat this morning to ask me about a very similar piece."

"Who?" Neal asked. If Peter had jumped the gun somehow and fucked it up --

"Some unsavory men. It turns out the artist -- whoever he or she may be -- inadvisably sold a very expensive forgery to a very excitable criminal. They were interested to know if I had any information on such an artist, given that my paints were used in the production of it. I told them I sell a lot of paint; I simply hadn't any clue."

Neal studied her expression.

"Maybe your memory's been jogged since then?" he suggested hopefully. "I'd like to meet the artist. I might have a job for them."

She smiled at him, but there was a slightly nasty edge to it. He was reminded that the historical Brunhilda, while a princess, had also been a ruthless dictator.

"I'm afraid I'm really terribly amnesiac around feds," she said. Neal stared at her. "My sources are very good, Neal."

Neal leaned forward. "Honest truth. We dug up the leaf after a bust, and I got put onto it, but the FBI doesn't know I'm here."

"Yes, they do," she replied. Her foot knocked delicately against his ankle, where his tracker lay.

"Okay, but they don't know why," he corrected. "Seriously, would Mozzie come along if the feds were trailing us?"

"Neal, you can argue all you want, darling," she said, sipping her tea, "but the fact remains, you work for the FBI. I'm afraid I have nothing to tell you. Charming boy," she added, rubbing his cheek.

"Look, if you or someone else is in trouble, we can protect them," Neal said. She laughed.

"My lord, you even sound like a fed. Not that some of my favorite people haven't been lawmen; they make very passionate lovers. But they're not to be trusted, Neal, and you're one of them now."

"I know you're out of the game," Neal tried. "I know you've got a student who isn't. All I want is a name, Hilda. Lemme talk to them. I swear I won't narc."

"Promises made from a position of authority generally aren't worth the breath it took to make them," Brunhilda replied. "Neal, I think you'd better leave, before I lose my temper."

Neal opened his mouth to object, because he didn't like being called a fed and he didn't like being told he was The Man. Mozzie shook his head subtly at him.

"Come on," Mozzie said, standing. "Hilda, always a pleasure."

"My door is always open to you, Mozzie," she said, and Moz gave her a little bow. She offered her hand to Neal, who fumed as he bent to kiss it. "Neal...well, look out for yourself. You're swimming with sharks."

"Thanks, Hilda," he muttered, and followed Mozzie out of the tea room. In the cooler, relatively fresher air outside, he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, thinking.

"Well, that could have gone better," Moz said. "I should've come alone."

"She wouldn't have told you. Something's got her scared," Neal said. "She won't tell anyone anything. It's what she always used to do, just clamp down and wait for the shit to blow past."

"So what do we do? Follow her?"

"Follow _Brunhilda_ ," Neal said. "Yeah, that's a fantastic idea."

"What great ideas do you have, Mr. Fed?"

Neal tucked his chin against his chest, thinking. "Didn't Hilda used to teach at NYU? She had some alias as an assistant professor."

"You think her student's an actual student?"

"It's a lead," Neal said with a shrug.

"Gonna call the Suit in?" Mozzie asked. He gave Neal what Neal was pretty sure was supposed to be a friendly leer. It looked almost menacing.

Neal considered it, though. Peter's badge could probably get them easy access to all of Brunhilda's class rosters. Jones and Cruz could shake down all the students until something fell out. Neal could probably even have the lead. Not that he wanted the lead, wanting the lead was for actual feds and asskissers at that, but still. He'd get the lead.

On the other hand, if what he suspected was true, Brunhilda's student was in a lot more trouble than just a nosy federal consultant could bring. Calling everyone in on a Saturday for this would be pointless, and nobody would be at the NYU records offices anyway.

"Let's go kick over some rocks," he said. "I'm gonna poke around on campus. You wanna come along?"

"Unwashed fraternity brothers and the faint whiff of arrogant academia. No thank you," Mozzie said.

Neal left Mozzie at the subway and caught a cab to the NYU campus. He didn't really have a goal in mind; he just wandered around, putting his head into any open building, loitering around the library and poaching someone's computer in the lab after they left without logging off. No mailing list requests for Latin scholars; no news about anyone disappearing suddenly. Lots of bitching about classes. Looked like he hadn't missed much, skipping out of formal education at fifteen.

The registrar's office was almost stupidly easy to get into, and there was a set of hardcopy printouts of the year's enrollment sitting in a binder behind one of the desks. He thumbed through it, took pictures with his phone of the two classes taught by Hilda Summerfield, and put everything back where he'd found it.

He was sitting in a college bar, hoping the food would be edible and rewarding his hard efforts with a microbrew, when his phone rang.

"Going back to school?" Peter asked, when he answered.

"Checking my map?" Neal replied.

"I do every day," Peter reminded him. "What's so interesting about the NYU campus?"

"Oh, you know. Stuff. College football. Academia. Coeds."

"I'm pretty sure we don't call them coeds anymore," Peter said. Neal sipped his beer.

"Chasing down a lead on the Codex," he told him. "Long shot. I took myself off the clock for the evening. I can swing by later -- "

"I think three nights in a row might be pushing it," Peter told him.

"Having trouble keeping up?" Neal asked.

"With you? I seem to remember something about catching you," Peter replied, unruffled. "Other people can see your map too, Neal. Go home, sleep in your own bed tonight. I'll see you on Monday and we'll talk."

"About my tracker."

"Yeah. About that," Peter agreed.

"Tell Elizabeth I say hi."

"She does too," Peter said, sounding amused. "Seeya Monday, Neal."

***

Neal spent Sunday restless, feeling as if he were waiting for everything -- for Alex to get in touch about the music box, to talk to Peter about his tracker, for classes at NYU to start on Monday so that he could potentially stalk Hilda's students. To see Peter again. To, if he was very lucky, see Elizabeth again, perhaps for lunch if she was downtown.

He knew how to wait, but he didn't enjoy it. He fidgeted through breakfast until June told him he was making the dog nervous, and then he went running to see if he could work off the energy, but that just made him restless and tired. Washing the Jag had more or less the same effect, though it was always nice to get a hot car like that under his hands. Mozzie was incommunicado on some minor job or other. Sketching only frustrated him.

Finally he gave up and went to take a shower, washing the last traces of car soap and chamois-smell down the drain, turning the hot water up high to try and beat his muscles into relaxation. Of all the places he had lived, June's undoubtedly had the best water pressure. The little things mattered.

There was this guy in supermax, a lifer, who used to jerk off in the communal showers and didn't care who knew it; he called it _gettin' clean, inside and out_. Most of the inmates were more furtive, but Neal suspected that at least some of them had admired the guy's guts. He always had. In prison, he'd tried to treat it like eating or working out, a physical function, because if he let himself drift into anything less clinical it just brought back the sharp pain of loss when it was done. Missing Kate. Yearning for Kate, spending his whole week looking forward to her visit.

Here, with the privacy of four walls, it was a little easier, and with the prospect of seeing Kate again he _wanted_ to think about her. The way she was soft, the way her body fitted under his, all the insane places they'd been. Hiding out, breaking in, running, hotel rooms and safe houses and cars they'd slept in. It was easier to think about her hips and thighs and the way her hair splayed on the pillows, while he stood in the shower alone and wrapped his hand around his dick and --

Even as he was closing his eyes, leaning his forehead against the slick tile, a different image flicked across his mind. Elizabeth -- same dark hair but completely different in every other respect, straddling his hips and propping herself on his chest as they moved together. Peter's hand reaching up from next to him to cup her breast, Neal breathless as she set the pace. Kate had never done that, or maybe never thought he wanted her to. The memory was blurred over with the heat of Peter's mouth on his, and Neal flexed his hips forward and grunted softly.

Kate. He'd have Kate, he'd win this game and he'd get Kate back and the minute they were alone he'd kiss her so hard she forgot her name.

He growled in frustration, trying every fantasy he knew, but he couldn't feel the build of it, couldn't really remember what it had been like. Even that one time she'd been so furious with him over something that she'd scratched the shit out of his back, and he'd been a little ashamed of how much he'd liked that. He'd felt marked, like for once she was admitting he belonged to her.

Peter didn't leave marks, he thought, and his whole body jerked with a surge of pleasure. Peter didn't have to leave marks. Elizabeth liked to bite, gentle little nips that didn't even bruise, but in the moment they'd felt like brands on his skin. Being with them was like being overloaded, drowning in sensation after years without --

He bit down to muffle the cry as he came, because he honestly wasn't sure whose name he would even have said.

By the time he'd caught his breath, his skin was reddening and wrinkling; he shut the water off and stepped out, tying a towel around his waist, combing his hair flat against his head with his fingers. He opened the door from the bathroom --

A man was sitting at his table. A stranger; slim, brown hair, dark tan. Young, from the look of him, still in a gawky adolescent phase. He didn't look up when Neal emerged.

"I really gotta start posting a guest list or something on my door," Neal said, closing the bathroom door behind him.

"I broke in," the young man said.

"Downstairs kitchen?" Neal asked carefully. He was naked, and there was a housebreaker in June's home. He was pretty sure he could take him, if he had to, but that wasn't the kind of naked wrestling he especially enjoyed.

"Yeah. The pug's not much of a watchdog. These are great," he added, sifting through the sketches Neal had shoved aside in frustration. Copies of old, familiar Leonardo diagrams; poor ones at that.

"You should see the real thing," Neal said. "Who are you?"

The man -- boy, really -- looked up and then quickly looked away again, shyly. "Brunhilda sent me."

Neal opened his mouth to complain that he'd left Brunhilda the hell alone, and she didn't need to send twelve-year-olds to try and scare him, but he caught himself before the diatribe could begin.

"Brunhilda didn't send you," he said. He was suddenly conscious of the tracker on his ankle, starkly visible against his skin, and the white raised scar on his shoulder. "But you came _from_ her, right?"

A nod. Neal rummaged in the dresser for some underwear, turning his back and slipping it on under the towel.

"You're the kid who did the Codex," he continued, stepping into a pair of trousers and discarding the towel. Might as well put on the full Caffrey Rat Pack regalia. This was going to be interesting. "What's your name?"

"Clive," the boy answered.

"Clive...?"

"Just Clive, for now." There was a cocky edge to the kid's tone, not quite arrogance but just a little bit of bluster. Neal could respect that. He'd been a cocky asshole too. He pulled on an undershirt and then reached for one of Byron's dress shirts, turning around. Clive was watching him.

"How old are you?" Neal asked, threading a tie through his collar. He picked up the collar-bar from the bowl on the dresser and began fitting it in.

"Nineteen," Clive answered. Neal gave him a small grin.

"You do good work for someone your age. You do good work for someone my age," he added, sliding a cufflink into his left sleeve.

"So you really are a fed?" Clive asked.

"Brunhilda paints broad strokes," Neal told him. Right cufflink. He pondered shoes and socks, but the image would be more awkward than the payoff would be worth. He walked barefoot to the table and pulled out a chair, sitting down across from Clive. The boy had smart, sharp eyes; an expressive face. "I consult with the feds. I found your screwup on the Codex for them."

"That fucking Codex," Clive said bitterly.

"Yeah, you got sloppy right at the end. What gives?"

"It was my fourth try. I thought the solvent would evaporate."

"Never think. Know," Neal told him. "If you'd done it right you wouldn't be sitting here now. Why are you sitting here now, anyway?"

Clive twitched a sheet of sketch paper between his fingers. He was nervous; a little in awe, Neal thought, but something much bigger was eating at him. He tilted his head.

"Brunhilda said I wasn't the only one asking about you," he said. Clive winced. "Who else is after you?"

"She told me you were a fed," Clive replied, as if that were an explanation. "She said I shouldn't trust you, that you'd flip me over to the cops and I'd go away. But it's probably better than getting shot."

"Jesus, kid, what the hell did you do?" Neal asked.

"I haven't got any contacts. I can't use Brunhilda's, that's not safe for her, and I owe her. I had to make my own. The guy who bought the Codex put me onto another collector, so I did some sheets from a Book of Hours. I sold them to a guy named Barlowe. I didn't know Barlowe -- "

" -- runs a drug ring for most of Lower Manhattan?" Neal finished. Clive nodded miserably.

"He heard about the Codex, I don't know how, and he had someone take a look at his stuff. He knows I ripped him off."

"Yeah, here's a question," Neal said, tugging the sketch paper out of Clive's hands. Clive looked up at him. "Why did you rip him off? You're a kid. You're obviously educated. You do this for kicks?"

Clive shook his head. "I needed some cash. My parents kicked me out."

Neal raised an eyebrow.

"I came out," Clive said defiantly.

"Sometimes that happens," Neal told him, keeping his voice low. "I'm sorry. How'd you find Brunhilda?"

"I was saving up for school. I used to sit in on classes. Brunhilda said I could put all that private-school Latin to good use. She let me stay at her place until Barlowe started poking around."

"How much did you take Barlowe for?"

"Fourteen thousand dollars."

Neal rolled his eyes. "He's gonna shoot you over fourteen grand?"

"Apparently it's a matter of pride," Clive said, and there was a little pride in his own eyes. "Barlowe couldn't spot a fake. He's insulted."

Neal sat back, his mind working, biting around the edges of the problem, examining it from other angles. Clive needed to get the hell out of New York if Barlowe was gunning for him. He doubted he could fast-talk a deal; Barlowe wasn't interested in anything the kid had except his fourteen grand.

Barlowe ran a big operation. Crack him and his cronies would just move in and take over, but it'd still be a gold star on Peter's resume. And that kind of case made judges throw around immunity like candy.

Nineteen. Young to be in the game. He'd probably never pulled a real con in his life. On the other hand, he'd survived on his own long enough to hook up with Brunhilda. A kid with no resources and no support got desperate fast, but learned fast too.

"So why are you here?" Neal asked.

"You said you had a job for me," Clive said.

"You burn through the fourteen grand already?"

"There's a guy says it costs thirty to make me disappear."

Neal laughed. "He's ripping you off. You could do it yourself for fifteen. I can't help you, though."

"Can't or won't?" Clive asked, jutting out his chin. The bravado of youth suddenly struck Neal as uproariously funny.

"I found you for the feds. I work for them. I got a little leeway on this one, so they don't know I've found anything yet. You run tonight, get a head start, I won't say anything. If you stay in New York, I gotta turn you in."

Clive looked -- he looked like he was going for mildly disappointed, but also like he was about to cry.

"But if you trust me," Neal added, "I have another option for you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
>  **[Collar bars](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Collar_pin)** are hot. (Neal wears these in canon occasionally -- you can see one in his collar in the first scene of this past week's episode.)  
>  **[Brunhilda's tea room](http://www.russiantearoomnyc.com/)**.


	7. Chapter 7

When Neal walked into the office on Monday, it was with a strut and a swagger, and Peter knew he'd found something. He was even wearing the hat.

"Morning," he said, throwing himself into the chair across from Peter's and tossing his hat on the table.

"You look chipper," Peter said.

"It's a beautiful day, and I have a present for you," Neal replied. "First I need to ask a question, though."

Peter set down his pen. "Shoot."

"If someone forges something, something that probably doesn't actually exist and wouldn't harm the very deceased original artist if it did -- "

"Like the Codex?" Peter asked.

"Like the Codex, yeah," Neal said. He looked... _excited._ "But they sold it to someone who thought they were knowingly buying stolen property, and that buyer was a criminal to begin with, is it still a crime?"

"The buyer's criminal status is irrelevant," Peter said. "It's still fraud."

"Yeah, but how bad is it? Is that something the FBI holds a grudge about?"

Peter considered it. Talking about moral relativism with Neal was dangerous. "If the seller could get us the buyer, and the buyer had significant criminal activity, the Bureau could make a deal."

"What if he could get you Shane Barlowe?" Neal asked.

Shane Barlowe. God, Neal didn't do anything by halves.

A three-agency task force had been chasing Barlowe for years. White Collar wasn't interested in drug running, but other departments and agencies would be. If they could slam-dunk Barlowe, it wasn't just Peter's star that would rise -- the whole department would be in the spotlight, and a major collar facilitated by Neal would make their position with the Bureau a lot more secure.

"I'm listening," Peter said.

"The Codex forger sold Barlowe a couple of fake religious documents. Took him for chump change, but Barlowe's gunning for him now that he knows he got taken. We use him to set up a sting, you catch Barlowe making a buy on stolen goods, you have everything you need to get him on a whole lot more," Neal said.

Definitely excited; this was Neal's favorite kind of sting, because it felt like a con. 

"We gotta move fast," Neal continued. "The forger knows Barlowe's after him. If we don't make him an offer now, he's skipping town."

"What does he want?" Peter asked, sitting back.

"Immunity," Neal said, and Peter rolled his eyes. "Come on, Peter, he sold three gorgeous forgeries to a gang lord and one to a killer perv who's now dead. He's offering us Barlowe on a platter."

"You've spoken with him," Peter said. It wasn't a question, but Neal nodded anyway. "You know how to get in touch?"

"Nothing easier," Neal said.

"I want a meet," Peter told him. "I want to see this guy for myself. Can you set that up?"

"I'll make it happen," Neal said. "Come back to June's place with me after work."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "This sounds like a ploy."

"Hand to God, Peter, my intentions are honorable," Neal said, raising one hand. He let it fall and leaned forward. "About that, though..."

"Yeah," Peter said, rubbing his forehead. "I got nothing. You?"

"I was kinda hoping you had something," Neal admitted. "Because all I got is you playing fast and loose putting my tracker on whenever we cut it for a case, and I don't think that'll fly."

"Not even with me," Peter told him.

"What about Elizabeth, she think of anything?"

Peter smiled a little. "She suggested long lunches."

"Nooners! Daring," Neal said.

"Didn't work for Nancy Reagan, won't work here," Peter told him. Neal gave him a dry look, but they both knew he was right. "I figure we can get away with you working late at our place about once a week. Believe me, I never thought I'd be at a point in my life where I was planning this kind of thing."

"Fun, isn't it?" Neal said, grinning. "Playing the system. Even more fun when you're inside it."

"Hmm." Peter didn't want to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. "Okay. Let's go forward with the Barlowe sting. You work up a plan, I'll brief the masses. I'm gonna have Jones bring the DEA in on this, but it's our collar. Don't let them bully you."

"Peter, since when have I ever let anyone bully me?" Neal asked.

Peter smiled, slow, and watched Neal's eyes get sharp and bright.

"Nobody but you," Neal said quietly. He picked up his hat, flipped it onto his head, and stood up. "I'll dust off my best alias."

"Neal," Peter said, as he was leaving.

"Yeah?" Neal asked, leaning back in the door, hat tilted at a rakish angle.

"Barlowe is vicious, and taking him down is going to be very political. Tread carefully," Peter warned him.

"Always do," Neal said. "I'll set up the meet."

Peter spent the day in meetings with the DEA and the joint taskforce, setting up the sting they were going to execute. Neal was everywhere at once: laying out a plan, offering advice, quietly checking with Hughes to make sure his alias, Benjamin Doss, wouldn't be used against him (Doss had gotten up to some shady dealings, but Hughes could only see Barlowe on the horizon). Neal made a lot of promises based on the Codex forger's complicity, and Peter trusted he would come through for them --

Until he actually met the forger, who they found sitting at Neal's dining room table that evening, sketching, like a kid who'd been given crayons and told to keep quiet.

"You didn't tell me he was a ninth-grader," Peter hissed.

"I'm nineteen," Clive said.

"You're a kid," Peter told him, and turned back to Neal. "Seriously, you want us to wire this guy up and send him in against Barlowe?"

"Peter Burke, this is Clive," Neal said, ignoring him and looking resigned. "Clive, Special Agent Peter Burke. He's my handler."

"Yeah, hi," Peter said, shaking the kid's hand. "Seriously, Neal, I don't think Hughes would have gone for this if you told him -- which is why you didn't tell him," he added, more to himself than for Neal's benefit. Neal gave him an only slightly repentant look.

"I'll be there the whole time. He's got it covered," Neal said. "He sold to Barlowe the first time with no backup."

"You seriously forged the Codex Leaf," Peter said. Clive nodded. "How?"

Clive gave Neal a nervous look, like he wasn't sure Peter was really asking for an explanation.

"Where'd you get your chops," Peter clarified.

"That's not relevant," Neal said quickly, before Clive could even open his mouth. He was hovering next to the kid, almost paternally, and Peter could see the metaphorical resemblance: a brilliant nineteen-year-old in over his head, living outside the normal world, not even experienced enough to know when he was being had.

"You up for this?" Peter asked Clive, giving Neal a warning look to keep quiet. "They're not carrying pop-guns."

"Like I have a choice?" Clive replied. "I can pull this off."

" _If_ we get Barlowe, I have a grant of immunity for you," Peter said, making his decision. "If he gets away, he can't press charges, but you'll still be looking at a year or two in prison."

Clive glanced at Neal again. Neal shrugged.

"Them's the breaks," he said. "We'll get Barlowe. We always win."

Peter hoped like hell he was right. If they didn't get Barlowe, it wasn't exactly out of the question that young Clive the Forger would end up dead.

"Neal, a word?" he said, and stepped back into the landing outside the door. Neal followed, closing the door behind him.

"Look, I know he looks young but I was only twenty-two when you started chasing me -- " Neal began, but Peter held up a hand to silence him. Neal looked like he was forcibly swallowing the rest of his sentence.

"You were twenty-two, not nineteen," Peter said. "And you were smarter than he is. I get the connection, okay? But you can't get too involved in this case."

"I'm not -- " Neal broke off again when Peter looked at him.

"He's young, and he's smart, and he's also a _criminal_ ," Peter said. "Your job is to help stop people like him. Neal," he added warningly. Neal closed his mouth. "Barlowe is serious fucking business. I give you a lot of leeway when you try to play the Bureau, but not this time. You do the op straight and clean, so that kid in there doesn't get shot. If the shit hits the fan, don't be a hero. Keep yourself safe and let SWAT handle the kid. We clear?"

Neal seemed to struggle for a moment, but then he nodded. "Clear," he repeated.

Peter gave him a small smile and his hand around the back of Neal's neck as a reward. "This is me looking out for you."

"I know," Neal murmured. He darted his head up quickly, kissed Peter like he was picking a pocket, and pulled away.

***

Neal loved FBI stings with a passion that bordered on the inappropriate, especially for a felon. But he loved them! Not only because they were basically legit cons, but because at the end you didn't just get away with whatever you were after. You got whatever you were after and you got to see the look on your mark's face when he realized he'd been taken.

His first meet with Barlowe was like the best fencing match ever; he'd give him this, the guy was smart and fast, if definitely excitable. It took a lot to talk his way into bringing "that little punk" in to see him, with the promise that Barlowe would give the kid a chance to make good. After all, how could a kid like that know when he'd been passed a forgery?

Let Benjamin Doss handle your antiques, his manner said, and you'll never get taken by another fake again.

The second meet did not quite go as planned.

Clive, Neal had to say, played it off like he'd been made for this. The problem was that once they'd put out the antiques Clive had to fence, and Neal had authenticated them -- they were all real, from FBI evidence storage -- Barlowe opened the briefcase that was supposed to contain the cash, and pulled out a gun instead.

Neal should have thought of this. Nobody needed a briefcase to carry ten grand.

"Hey, whoa," he said, lifting his hands and incidentally blocking a clear shot at Clive with his left palm. "Come on, Barlowe, we made a deal."

"I don't make deals with punks," Barlowe said. "Step aside, Doss."

Neal obediently stepped in front of Clive. He heard Peter cursing at him over the remote two-way.

"I said _aside!_ " Barlowe shouted.

"Aside where? There's a big fucking table there!" Neal pointed out. "Come on man, don't shoot the kid. Just take the goods and go. You've more than made back your fourteen grand with this haul."

"You think he can just come up in here and keep palming off stolen fakes on me," Barlowe said. "I want him out of the business for good. I don't want him talking."

"You are seriously insane," Neal told him.

"What the _fuck_ did you say to me?" Barlowe demanded, angling the gun at Neal's forehead.

A year ago, this would have been a terrifying threat, but Neal was used to guns being pointed at him by now.

"I want you," Neal said, politely, "to very slowly look down. See that red dot on your chest? That's from a sniper rifle held by one of my very close friends at the FBI. Now you could still kill me, but I don't think you want to die pulling the trigger on small time like me."

Barlowe looked down at the dot. He looked back up, and lifted his gun, hands in the air. Jones and his team began to move in --

And then Barlowe twisted, caught Neal across the temple with the edge of the gun, turned like a ballet dancer, and wrapped his arm around Clive's neck. He kicked twice, sharply; Neal felt both blows land, one on his ribcage, the other in his stomach.

"Anyone fires, I kill the kid," Barlowe yelled. Neal, curling in pain at his feet, saw Peter's ashen face at the edge of the warehouse floor. "Anyone comes at me from behind better be prepared for me to fire as my last act on this goddamn Earth."

The pain in his ribcage was fading, but Neal stayed curled on the ground. Barlowe hadn't begun to move yet.

"Let the kid go," Jones called.

"Fuck you, fed," Barlowe replied. Neal looked at Peter again; Peter's right hand was bent, almost as if in supplication, until Neal realised it was a signal. It was an angle.

Barlowe was shorter than Clive.

Neal turned his head. Clive's legs were spread wide; he was being half-supported by Barlowe, and he looked scared out of his mind.

He waited for Peter's mark.

"There's no way out, Barlowe," Peter called. "Even if you shoot the kid, it's over. Do the smart thing."

Peter was walking out of the shadows -- oh Jesus, he had no vest on -- his hand still bent. Neal watched Barlowe's gun hand and sure enough, there it was, because most guys who carried guns didn't treat them like weapons; they treated them like big wagging dicks.

Barlowe pointed the gun at Peter.

Neal pulled his body around, swore at the pain that nipped up his ribcage, and kicked hard between Clive's legs, the heel of his shoe connecting squarely with Barlowe's groin.

Things happened very fast. Barlowe pulled the trigger; Peter threw himself to the side; Clive came down on Neal and Neal grabbed him, rolling, as a shot rang out and Barlowe's blood dappled the warehouse floor. Neal pushed Clive into the arms of a SWAT officer, who dragged him away; he got to his feet and saw Barlowe down, clutching his shoulder, but more importantly he saw Peter down -- flat on his back, a medic crouched over him.

"I'm fine!" Peter called, when he heard Neal running towards him. Neal skidded to a stop a few feet away, not daring to go further. "He missed me. The kid okay?"

Neal glanced at the SWAT guy who had Clive; he gave him the thumbs up. "Yeah, he's fine."

"Okay," Peter said, pushing his would-be medic away and getting to his feet. He cracked his neck, flexing his right arm carefully. Neal watched, heart hammering -- which was stupid, because during the op he'd been fine, but now that it was over he realized Peter could have been shot. Peter could have been _shot_. And that was stupid too because he knew all the time that Peter could get shot. He could get shot himself. He _had_ been shot, once.

"What the hell did I tell you about not being a hero?" Peter said, walking forward, still flexing his arm. "Neal, I swear to God I'm going to put a muzzle on you. Look at you," he added, hand drifting over what was probably going to look like a black eye, where Barlowe had pistol-whipped him. "Can I get a medic please?" he shouted.

"I'm fine," Neal said, though he suspected he'd have bruises to argue with that.

"That's great," Peter told him. "You still need to get checked. Take him out of here," he ordered, as the SWAT medic took Neal by the arm.

Outside, in the glare of the warehouse parking lot, Neal tolerated the attentions of the medics until they cleared him, then went looking for Clive. He found him sitting sideways in the back of a squad car, looking a little shell-shocked.

"So," Neal said, leaning against the door. "That was interesting. The shakes'll stop in a minute, it's just adrenaline."

Clive absently reached up and ran his fingers through his short brown hair, cradling his head. "He was gonna shoot me."

"Yeah. People like him do that," Neal said.

"This is what you do for a living," Clive said, as if he were puzzling something out.

"Well, usually it's not quite this exciting," Neal admitted.

"You do this kind of thing. All the time. How do you survive?" Clive asked. Neal shrugged.

"I've done worse," he said. "You stay on this route, you will too. Now you see what the game's about."

"Jesus Christ," Clive muttered.

"Lemme give you some advice," Neal said. Clive nodded, looking down at his hands. "Get out now."

"What?" Clive asked.

"Get out now. You've got fourteen grand, get yourself some help and stop stepping over the line." Neal leaned forward, making sure Clive looked up before he continued. "When I was your age I was in Vegas, pulling cons. My handler knows it. He knows everything about me. He knows where I am all the time, because of the tracker."

"So?" Clive asked.

"So he told me, _Someone should've done better by you._ When I was nineteen, someone should've been looking out for me. I loved the life, so maybe I wouldn't have listened. You don't love it, you just need it, and nobody should put up with this kind of bullshit if they don't love it. Don't get sent up. Get out."

"What about Brunhilda?"

"Screw Brunhilda. She used you and took a cut. You don't see her here keeping you from getting shot, huh?"

Clive gave him a stubborn look. "I'm good at this. I can get out of New York and do it right next time."

"So?" Neal shrugged. "Can, should...maybe go easy on yourself and find a better way. Just -- think about it."

Clive turned away, pulling into the cop car a little, feet up on the runnerboard. Neal shook his head and wandered off, waiting for Peter and the team to get done doing the preliminaries inside. It was half an hour before they brought Barlowe out, bandaged and still yelling threats, and shoved him none-too-gently in the back of an armored wagon. The SWAT guys tipped their hats at Peter, who'd followed them out, and began loading their gear. Neal watched as Peter bent his head close to Cruz to give a few last-minute orders and then walked across the parking lot to stand in front of him, arms crossed.

"I know I stepped in front of a gun -- " Neal began, but Peter reached out a hand and tugged on Neal's ear -- removing the wireless two-way plug. Neal stared at it.

"Your radio was on. Channel five," Peter said. He flicked his thumbnail across the battery switch. "Pretty much everyone was on channel three. Me, maybe Cruz, heard what you said."

"Peter -- "

"Shh," Peter said. Neal fell silent. "You stand here, Neal, and you think about what you just did. You maybe just saved that kid's life."

"Maybe," Neal protested.

"Doesn't matter. From here out it's his call. You still did good," Peter said. "Hopefully he gets out. I'll see about getting him in Witness Protection, he'll probably need it once Barlowe's guys hear about this."

"He wouldn't have -- he would've got caught. Probably fast. You have to love the work," Neal said.

"Yeah. That's my point. You looked out for someone, Neal. That's something you can do here. Love _this_ work. Be proud of it. I am," Peter added. "Which is the only reason I am not busting your ass for trying to get shot."

"I wasn't _trying_ ," Neal pointed out. Peter opened the car door.

"Get in," he said, tilting his head at the seat. Neal didn't wait to be shoved in.

"Where are we going?" Neal asked.

"Your ribs okay?"

"Yeah, he kicks like a punk."

"Good," Peter told him, backing the car out of the warehouse's lot. "I'm taking you home."

Neal glanced at him. "Your home? Are we working late tonight?"

"Oh yeah," Peter said, poker-faced, and passed him his tracker. Neal sighed and buckled it around his ankle. "I already let the Marshals know. Speakerphone," he told the car, as they got on the road. "Call Elizabeth."

"We are truly living in the future," Neal said to him, as a ringing noise filled the car.

"You, keep quiet," Peter told him. There was a click as Elizabeth picked up.

"I'm never going to get used to a car phoning me," she said.

"Hi, hon," Peter replied. "Where are you?"

"On my way home. Where are you?"

"Pretty much the same," Peter said. Neal watched his face -- so many complicated emotions, so much affection in it.

"Early day for you. How'd the op go?" Elizabeth asked. Peter pursed his lips. "That well, huh?" she said, into the silence.

"Nobody died," Peter said. "We got our guy."

There was a soft exhalation. "How badly did you get beat up? How's Neal?"

"I'm fine," Neal put in. Peter gave him a brief glare. "Peter almost got shot," he added, grinning.

"Neal got pistol-whipped," Peter replied.

"It's not a competition," Elizabeth told them. "It's really not a competition for who's going to make me worry more."

"We're both okay," Peter answered. "You want me to pick up dinner?"

Neal sat back as Peter and Elizabeth sorted out dinner, talked about errands, and did some kind of strange domestic dance together about their day. Even talking about how Satchmo needed a trip to the groomer's, Peter was relaxed -- perhaps because of that. Certainly after taking down a drug kingpin or planning a luncheon for three hundred people, the groomer didn't seem very stressful. It was like they didn't need to be told to turn off. They just did it. Elizabeth didn't need or want Peter to be a fed with her, and Peter didn't bother trying to be.

He imagined, as they were pulling into a parking place near Elizabeth's favorite Greek restaurant, what it must be like to have someone love you even if you weren't putting on a show.

And then he wondered if maybe he was the strange one, and Peter and Elizabeth were the way things were supposed to be.

***

By the time they got home, Neal looked like he'd been in a fistfight, a dark bruise running from temple down across his cheekbone, swelling a little under his eye. He walked like it too, stiff and slow, back very straight. Peter had a strange sense of déjà vu as he set the takeaway on the table and El fussed around Neal, making him undo his shirt off to display his latest injuries. Then she fussed at Peter until he rolled up his sleeve -- Neal was such a fucking snitch sometimes -- and put an ice pack on his elbow. He tossed a second one to Neal, who applied it carefully to his face as he opened the takeaway containers with his other hand.

"Dining in style tonight," Elizabeth said, passing out plastic forks. Neal waited for them to start eating, but once they did he dove in like he'd never seen food before, which was reassuring.

"So I think," Peter said, picking up their discussion from the car, "I can drop Satchmo off tomorrow morning on the way in, I just need to leave a little early. But if you need to be in midtown by ten..."

"Well, maybe they can hold onto him for an hour or two. I'll be done by eleven," El said, pouring some of her soup into the empty mug he held out. "I can run him home, get lunch here, and be back in Manhattan for the dinner. Oh, there's a dinner," she added. "So I'll be home late."

"If you walk him at lunch, he'll be fine, and I can -- " Peter broke off, because Neal was laughing, hiding it by looking down at his food, but definitely laughing. "What?"

"Sorry, it's just..." Neal looked up, eyes bright, grinning. "No, sorry. You almost got shot today and now it's all, oh, well, what do we do about Satchmo?"

Peter glanced at Elizabeth, but she looked as baffled as he felt.

"Sweetie, are you okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine." Neal gestured with his ice pack, then pressed it back against his face again. "It's...I don't know, domestic."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "You have a problem with domestic? 'Cause Satchmo's been around a lot longer than you have, so if it's you or the dog..."

Neal sobered up fast. El kicked Peter under the table.

"He's joking, Neal," she said.

"I don't have a problem with it," Neal said, quieter now. "I'm just not used to it."

"It's not like you were raised by wolves," Peter pointed out. He sensed he was treading very close to the borderline of Neal's psyche. On the one hand he didn't want to poke Neal's crazy -- but on the other, well, a glimpse into it was usually educational.

"You would know," Neal told him, but he smiled when he said it, and took another bite of food. Satchmo, who had been equal-opportunity begging from under the table, laid his head on Neal's thigh and whined piteously. Neal looked down at him in surprise, and Peter started to laugh. He wasn't even sure why it was so funny, but it was, and obviously El thought so too because she was trying valiantly not to snort as she stifled her laughter. Neal was smiling, rubbing Satchmo's head.

"If I have to bump you off to be favorite around here, I will," he told the dog, which was even funnier, the mental image of Neal all in black creeping down the stairs some night to carry out a hit on their dog. Elizabeth leaned around the edge of the table to kiss Neal's uninjured cheek, and Peter watched in amusement as Neal turned his head to steal a real kiss, casual and smooth as any con he'd ever pulled.

That evening, just because he could, he hooked a handcuff around Neal's wrist and attached it to the leg of the bedside table. He didn't make particular use of the restraint, and Neal could have slipped it any time he wanted; really it just meant Neal had one less hand to touch with. But Neal's eyes got dark and narrow when Peter fastened it, and Peter could hear him rattle it occasionally, to be sure it was still there.

By the time he unlocked it, Neal was bonelessly sprawled against Elizabeth and already half asleep. Peter flicked the catch free, set the handcuffs on the bedside table, and eased in next to El, while Neal absently rubbed his wrist. He must think Peter couldn't see his face in the dark; the secret, delighted smile wasn't meant to be visible to others, Peter was sure. It was a shame. Neal so rarely showed genuine, guileless pleasure. 

***

Four days after Barlowe went down, when the bruise on Neal's face had faded away to a faint yellow blotch, he got the call from Alex about the music box, and he put the wheels in motion to get his tracker deactivated.

Then Fowler came back to New York, and everything changed.

Suddenly, Neal was prepping a heist, prepping to leave New York, readying himself to see Kate again. He was so close he could taste it, and a little part of him liked the smile that the prospect put on Alex's face. He was sculpting, planning, laying things out, in his element --

He was also the reason the FBI searched Elizabeth's offices, and the reason Peter was put on suspension; Peter had punched Fowler for harassing his wife, but Fowler wouldn't have been there if Neal hadn't called him in. He was, quite suddenly, ripping apart the lives of the people he loved most in the world after Kate. He and Peter were on opposite sides: Peter was going after Fowler, but only Fowler was protecting Neal. Any other time he would have reveled in the freedom of almost a full week without the tracker watching his every move, but how could he face Peter and Elizabeth knowing what he'd done?

Once he finally had the box, it felt like the button had been pushed and the machine was in motion. He had to make the call. All his work had been pushing towards this point. How could he not? He made the call, he made the drop...and he couldn't say goodbye.

He had said goodbye to June, and Mozzie just got all emotionally constipated and quoted proverbs at him. Jones and Cruz would understand. He could just about say goodbye to Elizabeth, and anyway he owed her for nearly destroying her career.

"There's something I wanted to ask you," he said, because the phone somehow gave him enough distance from Elizabeth that he could finally ask. "You and Peter. How'd you know?"

She was silent for a while.

"Well...I think there's a difference between loving the idea of someone," she said, "and actually loving who they really are."

Which was no real answer. Or rather, it was an answer to a different question. Maybe she thought he'd meant, _How did you know about me?_

He couldn't say goodbye to Peter. He had to get to the airstrip. Once he was on the plane with Kate, this was a lost world, just a chapter of his past he could forget. He and Kate had new lives, legal lives, waiting for them. He would keep her safe, and she would give him peace. That was how it worked.

Wasn't it?

He made it all the way to the hangar, to the fucking _tarmac_ , before god damn Peter Burke showed up for one more try at knocking down Neal's comforting illusions.

It wasn't that he wasn't listening when Peter spoke -- every word seemed to echo for him -- but he felt confused, too, half-drugged. Peter was standing there like some immovable, unarguable fact, and Kate's sheer presence was pulling him towards the plane. Most of his thoughts were with Kate, but they weren't clear thoughts, they weren't the ones he wanted.

He thought about every time she'd talked about boring suburban life (a life Neal sometimes, secretly, envied); he thought about how Kate would rather draw a moustache on a Great Master than steal it. He loved her, he did love her, because despite all the fights they'd had about his recklessness and her carelessness, she understood him. Kate had let him love her even when she knew everything: why he'd bolted when he was fourteen and been sent to a juvie camp when he was fifteen and broken out and run around the world trying to find something worth having. Kate was it. He did love her, he must love her; she wasn't just an idea, she was Kate. He was sure she understood him. That couldn't have been a lie he told himself, not like the other lies --

Except Peter kept casting doubt, not by talking but simply by existing. Peter knew those things about him too, Peter knew it all. Peter and Elizabeth were worth it, thought he was worth it, and Peter demanded more of him for the having.

Peter, who had once settled his weight down on top of Neal like Neal was the only thing in the world, securing him there, protecting him, giving him that brief peace. Peter, who came to the hangar not because he was going to arrest him or even argue with him but just because he wanted to know why Neal hadn't said goodbye.

"I don't know," Neal said. He felt short of breath. He could think his way out of anything; he could think his way out of this, if only he could grab hold of a single strand of truth. Or even a convincing lie (except suddenly none of them were).

"Yeah you do," Peter said, in the same voice he used whenever he knew Neal was screwing around. "Tell me."

"I don't know!"

"Why?" Peter demanded.

"You know why!" Neal tried not to shout, because he was already fucking crying, he was crying about leaving his damn jailer, or maybe because some dream he'd invented was crashing around his ears.

"Tell me," Peter ordered.

"Because you're the only one who could change my mind," Neal said, before he even thought about it.

But Peter didn't order him to come back; Peter was going to make him choose it, if he chose it. It was just...Kate was there, and he'd come this far, and she needed him. That was too strong a pull -- years of loving Kate against a handful of weeks of loving Peter and Elizabeth.

Or maybe he was just an idiot.

Neal was halfway to the plane before Peter's chain choked him tight and he had to turn back. He had to. God alone knew what he'd tell Kate, if Kate even stayed to hear it. He had no idea what he would do here in New York. He had no idea what OPR would do to him, and he didn't care. This felt real, it felt as though he could put out a hand and touch it, and suddenly the life he was imagining for himself and Kate was just a pathetic series of lies he'd told them both. Lies maybe Kate didn't even believe.

It was on his lips to say it -- "Tell me if I don't go it'll be all right" -- and if Peter had said it would, he would have turned his back on everything he'd worked for. On Peter's nod he would have left the plane on the tarmac and spent the rest of his life making it up to them.

But instead, a sudden shockwave and a blast of heat knocked him to the ground, and the decision was made for him.

Kate was dead.

***

**Interlude: Supermax**

Mondays are the best day, because he gets two visitors.

Mozzie comes in the morning to meet with him as his legal counsel. Mozzie doesn't like visiting the prison, and he never did last time because last time he didn't have his "degree" yet, but he's okay visiting if he's there as legal counsel. There's a lot they can't talk about, but they talk about some stuff, and Mozzie slips him gum and cigarettes.

June comes in the afternoon, bringing sweets and making light chatter. The first time she came Neal was stunned to see her there, but she just said it brought back happy memories of Byron. June understands maybe better than anyone else. He's so grateful for June, and all her distracting talk of the world outside and of her grandkids.

Tuesdays, Elizabeth comes to see him. Technically Neal's only allowed two food packages a month, but either June's bribing someone or the guards like Elizabeth, because every week she has something for him -- hermetically sealed, commercially stamped per regulation, but still. Elizabeth works with caterers; she knows people who will hermetically seal and commercially stamp just about anything. One week she brings terrine de foie gras, and Neal gives a gourmet food tasting and palate-development lecture in the exercise yard that afternoon. He never has any trouble with the other inmates.

Thursdays, Peter visits. Normally Peter's badge would have meant they didn't have to sit in a cubicle with double-paned glass between them, but Peter's badge has been taken away from him, so it's visiting hours only. They don't talk much; Peter is obviously unused to this kind of visitation, and is less adaptable to it than Elizabeth. He often seems to have no idea what to say. It's good just to see him though, and every week Neal can honestly report he's kept his head down and his nose clean.

Jones and Cruz sometimes stop in, but it's erratic; they don't get as much spare time as Peter, and Neal can't really blame them. Jones brings him a chess set, though, and Cruz brings him some art supplies, all carefully concordant with prison guidelines. Neal practices his conte drawing with a Sargent book he requested from June, and mails them to Cruz with stamps Mozzie passes him. She's moved on from White Collar now; he jokes that he has too, but it falls a little flat.

He's never had so many visitors in prison before. Last time only Kate came, and the occasional crony who wanted to nose around and see if Neal would drop the location of his cache. This time he gets called to the visitor's room almost every day. It makes it easier to do what Peter said when they were taking Neal into custody after the bombing: _sit tight, don't make trouble, and let me take care of this._

He grieves for Kate, quietly. He's uncertain whether he's mourning her or the fantasies he built around her. Perhaps both. Either way, it hurts like a knife in the gut, and sometimes when he sleeps he dreams about the explosion.

Neal takes it day by day, but this time he doesn't bother to mark the wall. Peter said he'd take care of it, so all Neal has to do is wait. Surely he won't have to wait long.


	8. Chapter 8

Justice took almost four weeks to conclude their investigation of the explosion that killed Kate. It took Peter another three to get Neal sprung from supermax after he agreed to go back to the feds. Once Peter had his badge back, at least, he came to visit a little more often and they had more privacy. Without glass between them, Peter seemed better at the talking thing.

"The papers come in today," Peter said, finally, finally, one afternoon. "I'll be back to have you sign the release forms tomorrow and unless something goes wrong I can take you out with me."

"That's good, because I'm starting to think orange washes out my skin," Neal said. Peter gave him a small grin, and Neal leaned in close. "Can I come home with you?"

"You're gonna have to," Peter said. "Hughes has us working a high-profile robbery scheme. He wants you to come in to test some security, which means no tracker, which means my eyes on you on your first day out."

Neal leaned back. "I belong to the feds again, huh?"

"Well, you belong to me. If I don't think you're ready, I can keep you off this one. We could use your help, though," Peter added. He looked like he wanted to ask about Kate but didn't know how. Which was just as well, because Neal didn't know how to answer that question.

He had been ready to leave Kate for the life he had here, only to find both taken away from him. If Peter hadn't come for him, he'd have been on the plane when it exploded. If he hadn't got tangled up in Fowler's hunt for the music box, Kate would have been alive -- kept from him, but alive. He should have saved her, but he was (very slowly) learning that perhaps trusting the people you loved was more important than saving them.

And that some people could save themselves just fine without his help, even if he wanted to give it.

But Kate hadn't been able to, and Kate was still dead.

"Neal," Peter said, in a tone that was both warning and questioning. "You want in on the case?"

Neal nodded, not looking at him. "Yeah, sure. Fill me in."

"You'll get a briefing," Peter said. "Yes is enough for now."

"Then yes," Neal told him, with a wide smile he didn't especially feel. Peter looked like he knew Neal was faking, but he just brushed Neal's wrist with his fingertips and left.

***

The next day, Peter brought Neal home in handcuffs.

Well, he took him to the car in handcuffs; without his tracker on, the prison and the Marshals insisted. While Peter was unlocking the car, Neal slipped out of them and grinned at him, tossing them in the back seat. Peter rolled his eyes, but he knew Neal could tell he was amused.

"So, freedom beckons," Peter said, glancing at Neal as they drove. Neal was staring out the window, head tilted slightly so that he could watch both the sky and the approaching New York City skyline. "Limited freedom, anyway. Got any plans?"

Neal didn't look away from the sky. "French-press coffee. My very own shower all to myself. I want to walk Satchmo and eat an egg that wasn't reconstituted from powder. I haven't checked my email in seven weeks, I think I might have won the Spanish Lottery."

"Oh, we took them down," Peter said.

"Yeah? When?"

"About two weeks ago. Not my case but I heard about it. No more Spanish Lottery scam."

"If I don't get to touch you in the next thirty minutes I might actually die," Neal replied. Peter glanced at him and grinned.

"Easy. Save it for when we get home."

"You're not going to make me cook dinner again, are you?" Neal asked.

"No," Peter said, and Neal made that _noise_ he sometimes made, high in his throat, a sort of covetous whine. Peter carefully upped his speed by about fifteen miles an hour.

"El?" he called, when they arrived home. She'd said she was planning on being home early to help celebrate Neal's freedom, but she might've been stuck in traffic. "El, honey?"

"Elizabeth?" Neal called.

"Guess she's not home yet," Peter said. "Hey, if you were serious about walking Satchmmmf -- "

Neal, while he was talking, had grabbed him by both lapels and pushed him into the wall, shoving his tongue in his mouth. Peter tipped his head and tried to get control of the kiss, but Neal abruptly broke it off and pressed his face against Peter's neck. It was an increasingly familiar gesture: something Neal did when he wasn't sure what to do, and wanted to be told.

"Seven weeks," Neal said, into his skin. "I'm gonna fix it, I'm gonna make it right, but I just want..."

Peter got hold of his shoulders and managed to detach Neal's death grip on his lapels, pushing him back a little.

"Slow down," he said, and Neal visibly slowed his breathing. "What are you fixing, Neal? You've been out for less than an hour, what could you possibly have done?"

Neal licked his lips. "What I fucked up before. When Fowler came after you. The Justice inquiry. I'll make it right."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "Okay, I have two questions."

Neal nodded.

"One, did you blow up that plane?"

"What -- no!" Neal looked crushed. "Do you really think -- "

"No, I don't," Peter said. "But if you didn't blow it up, then this isn't your fault. Second question -- no, don't talk, I'm asking you a question," he said, and Neal closed his mouth. "How exactly were you planning to go about fixing whatever it is you think you did wrong?"

Neal's eyes pretty much told him everything he needed to know.

"I was gonna make a plan," Neal said.

"Mmhm. How about you not make a plan to fix what you didn't break, and instead let's just focus on doing our jobs?" Peter suggested. "I realize that it's a crazy idea, but I think it could work."

"Oh look," said a new voice. "It's my two favorite boys."

Peter glanced up and saw El standing in the doorway. Neal pulled away from Peter and swept her up in his arms. El kicked and laughed, and then went straight into Peter's arms when Neal put her down again. Satchmo started barking.

"Satch, shh!" El said, giving him a gentle shove. "Bed! Go!"

Satchmo went to his cushion and curled up on it, watching them all with big doggy eyes. Neal cocked his head.

"Sounds like a plan," he observed. Peter chuckled. El held out a hand to take Neal's.

"You never hold my hand," Neal told Peter, laughing as they climbed the stairs.

"I prefer handcuffs," Peter replied. Neal breathed in sharply. "Not today," Peter added, walking past him into the bedroom. He turned, halfway to the bed, and cupped Neal's jaw. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around Neal from behind, nuzzling his shoulder.

"You were good," Peter said. "You didn't run, you stayed out of trouble, you waited. I appreciate that. Patience can be rewarding."

Neal dropped slowly to his knees. Peter saw El cover her mouth with one hand; there was amusement in her eyes. He ruffled Neal's hair and didn't pull back when Neal leaned against his thigh, face pressed to his stomach.

"I'm not exactly going to object," Peter drawled. He could see Neal smiling against his shirt. Oh, Neal was cocky when he wanted to be.

"Welcome home, sweetie," Elizabeth said, then kissed Peter as Neal's hands slid his belt-buckle open.

***

Neal had to admit, he liked the robbery case when Peter presented it to him, and not just because Peter outlined the case while lying in bed, Elizabeth asleep nearby and Neal absently drawing invisible sketches on Peter's skin with his fingers: an elevation of Brunelleschi's Santo Spirito, a study of a horse from Picasso's _La Mort de la Femme Toréro_ , _Ajax and Achilles at the game board_ off an Athenian amphora, all while Peter poured out details of three beautiful bank heists.

For them, there wasn't even a crime to solve yet, just a warning to the banks of midtown that the Architect was coming to rob one of them, like he'd robbed banks in Dallas and Chicago and Boston. To prepare for his arrival, Neal was supposed to test bank security. He'd get to design a bank robbery, carry it out, and brag about it afterward, all without the slightest possibility of being thrown in prison for it.

Once he was working the con, working the case, he felt strong -- he felt like he was _back_ , top-of-the-world Caffrey, the most charming man in the room. It was a clean gig; he was having the time of his life and doing it for the feds, no ulterior motives, no games. Freaking out the bigwigs from the banks was just icing on the cake.

Plus, his new tracker didn't chafe, and it looked way cooler than the other one had.

As long as he was concentrating, or with Peter and Elizabeth, he either didn't have to think or he was thinking so hard there wasn't room for anything else. If, once in a while, he lost it for a minute at work, he covered it up pretty well. Peter caught it, but since when did Peter not catch something? 

Sometimes he swore he still felt it -- the single warm lick of air on the back of his neck right before the shockwave knocked him flat. With it, always, came the memory that Kate was gone. It made sleeping perilous, especially in Peter and Elizabeth's bed, because he didn't want to wake them (he didn't think he had). It made his hands shake, and it was frustrating to be unable to control his own body. In some ways it was a relief when the tracker went back on permanently and he returned to June's house. 

He would find out who killed Kate. Both to make sure she was properly avenged and to lay the nightmares to rest. Until then, he had a job to do.

They came close to catching the Architect when he finally made his hit, but they didn't actually catch him, mainly because SWAT was distracted by the hundred other bank alarms going off in the city at the same time. All Neal had to show for their efforts, in the end, was a plastic face mask that Peter whisked out of his hands and off to Forensics for any DNA evidence they could pull. Peter was pissed -- not at him, pissed in general, and he was giving someone the Shout (Neal didn't know who and didn't care) when Neal's phone rang.

"So is this a pile of shit or what?" said a voice on the other end of the line.

"Captain Shattuck," Neal said, a little of the edge of frustration wearing away. "How'd you get this number?"

"I'm the cops, Caffrey, I have ways," Mike Shattuck told him. "I have been busting my ass all day with this bank job crap. How's it going on your end? Burke's not picking up."

"Yeah, he's busy putting the fear of God into someone," Neal said. "We missed them by about ten seconds."

"For fuck's sake," Shattuck said.

"Sorry, Cap'n."

"Can't be helped," Shattuck sighed. "Actually I'm off the clock in another hour. You and Burke want to meet, go over how incredibly badly we mutually fucked this up? Because I can tell you right now, tomorrow I'm putting the entire NYPD through some drills. We should've had a SWAT team available for you guys."

"I can't speak for Peter," Neal said, "but I think a beer could probably do him some good."

"Keep one cold for me, then. Seeya," Shattuck said, and hung up.

Shattuck actually beat them to the bar, because Peter had to give a statement about discharging his weapon; by the time they got there it was full of cops, again, but it was also very quiet. Everyone seemed tired, Peter included. Still, when they sat down at the table, Peter and Shattuck launched into an immediate post-mortem: staff issues, information-sharing problems, contingency plans. Neal listened for a minute or two, because you never knew when this kind of thing would come in handy, but by the time they were talking duty rosters and phone trees, he was bored.

"I'm gonna go get another round, make some friends," he told Peter, who nodded and waved a hand distractedly. He left them to their plotting (seriously, how did they not already own New York?) and went to the bar.

"The feds grace us with their presence," a voice at his elbow said, before he could even order.

"Sergeant Calhoun," he replied, turning. "I'm just an innocent CI, in the grip of the Man."

"Mmhm," she grunted, leaning on the bar. "Your boss is going to make sure our collective asses are handed to us tomorrow."

"If it's any consolation, he's going to make sure half the FBI's asses are, too," Neal replied.

"Only half? You federal boys are such slackers." She ran a hand through her short blonde hair, grinning at him. "What're you having? On me."

"Nah, I'm buying for them too," he said, jerking his head at Peter and Shattuck.

"So let me pay. Hey, I got overtime today," she said, when Neal started to protest. "Don't think of it as me buying you drinks. Think of it as drinking on the taxpayer's dime."

"That's a little criminal," he said, giving her an impressed look.

"I meet a lot of bad influences," she told him. "Speaking of which, you look beat to shit, Caffrey."

"Thanks," he answered, turning to order, because the bartender was starting to look impatient. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror -- his suit still looked good and his hair was fine, but he couldn't deny the dark circles under his eyes or the dull cast of his skin.

"You really don't speak Cop, do you?" she asked. "Where I'm from, it's an expression of concern."

"It's the case," he lied.

"Yeah, well, win some, lose some," she says. "Don't take it on the chin."

"Haven't lost yet," he announced, because he was positive the job wouldn't end there. He wasn't going to let some smarmy asshole beat him at cops and robbers.

It occurred to him that he was standing in the middle of a cop bar, flirting with a police sergeant, talking about how he wasn't done chasing a bank robber. And _meaning it._ Neal Caffrey was actually genuinely talking shop with a cop. He felt like he should pick someone's pocket just to reaffirm his identity.

Instead he collected the drinks the bartender put out -- two beers and a vodka tonic -- and gave Calhoun a smile.

"I should get back before they declare New York a police state," he said. "Thanks, Calhoun. I owe you a drink. Three drinks."

"I'll collect when you don't look like you could sleep for a week," she said, and when he passed her with the drinks he felt her hand rest briefly on his ass.

_Still got it._

"Did I see you flirting with Calhoun?" Shattuck asked, as Neal set the drinks down. Peter gave him a sharp, curious look.

"She was telling me what an asshole you are," Neal replied easily. Shattuck laughed. "She said the drinks are on her."

"In that case, to Calhoun's health," Shattuck said, lifting his beer.

"Hear hear," Peter added, though he still looked like he was going to interrogate Neal later. Not that they had time; the next day they took down the Architect for good, and that was _awesome_. 

Though there were a few casualties along the way.

***

"This shirt," Neal announced from the doorway, "is ruined."

Peter looked up from where he was filling out the preliminary paperwork on the Architect case. It had been a long morning, and it hadn't helped that they'd been taken hostage by the bank's security manager. He wanted a hot meal and a night in, but the Bureau ran on documentation.

Neal held out his hands, palm up, flexed at the wrists. There were little flecks of purple all over his shirt-cuffs, where the dye packs he'd fired at Renee had blown back on him. His fingers were stippled purple too, and red where it looked like he'd been scrubbing them. There was a fine mist of dye right up to a line across his wrists, where the cuffs had protected them.

"Yep," Peter said, leaning back. "You think getting mustard stains out is tough, try industrial grade anti-theft dye. You're lucky they weren't using the old-fashioned dye packs; those tended to burst into flames."

He held up his right hand. A large purple blotch stained from his index finger down to the ball of his thumb, evidence of where he'd grabbed the dye-covered gun after Neal blew the packs. Neal rubbed his thumbs against his fingers, as if he could wear it away.

"You guys don't have some kind of solvent?" Neal asked.

"Well, that would defeat the point," Peter reminded him, "of insoluble dye."

"So I'm going to go around looking like I knocked over a bank for the next five weeks," Neal said.

"I see you Googled the dye," Peter replied. "Look on it as an excuse to wear fancy gloves."

Neal cocked his head, thinking about it, and then his eyes lit up. "Gloves, huh?"

"You can't expense them to the Bureau," Peter said. "Hey," he added, as Neal turned to go. "Question for you."

"Answer for you," Neal replied, turning around.

"Calhoun," Peter said.

"That's a name, not really a question," Neal pointed out.

"Were you flirting with her?"

Neal nodded. "Why?"

"Good question. Why were you?" Peter waved a hand when he saw Neal's expression. "Look, I'm not interrogating you here. I'm just asking. Are you interested in her? Or was it the usual Caffrey charm?"

Neal leaned against the door frame. "You want to know if that was about Kate."

"I want to know if that was you moving on from Kate," Peter said quietly.

Neal shook his head. "Calhoun didn't mean anything by it. Neither did I."

"Is that good?"

"You tell me," Neal said with a hint of a grin. "Honestly, Peter, I don't know what I'm moving on from or if I already did. It's been two months, and I got other things to think about too. Cut me some slack, would you?"

"The problem is, whenever I give you more rope, you trip yourself with it," Peter told him. "Now go buy some gloves."

"Can I call Elizabeth?" Neal asked, his smile widening.

"You don't need my permission to call my wife," Peter told him.

"Yeah, but she's a good character witness if someone tries to call the cops because I have criminal hands," Neal said, waving his fingers. "If Shattuck calls, tell him you'll post our bail."

"Don't get arrested," Peter yelled after him. Neal waved it off, already on his way out the door, but a couple of junior agents laughed.

***

After her morning meetings, Elizabeth had been planning to go back to her office and spend the afternoon buried in new design magazines; keeping up with the latest party trends was important, and it also made her feel like a kid again, looking through the toy section of the old Sears winter catalogue. _I want that, and that, and that..._

She had a stack of magazines in her purse and was just hailing a cab when her phone rang. She climbed in and gave the address, then checked the caller ID. Neal.

"Hi, babe," she answered, beating the voicemail by a single ring.

"Elizabeth." Neal's voice was warm and amused. Her immediate instinct that something was wrong (Neal rarely called her; Peter would have to be in a very dire meeting or a very bad accident) was assuaged by his easy confidence. "How would you like to go shopping?"

"What for?" she asked, interested.

"Gloves. My hands are purple," he said petulantly. "It's Peter's fault."

"...purple?" she echoed.

"It's a long story. I also need a new shirt."

"Is it purple too?" Elizabeth asked, mystified. The cabdriver glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

"Parts of it. So? Are you busy? I need an accomplice."

"Not really. What are you thinking, Saks? Barney's?"

"Oh, Elizabeth," Neal said, affection and dismay mingled. "No. Got a pen handy?"

"I think so," she said, digging in her bag. "Okay, what am I writing down?"

"Take down this phone number," Neal said, reeling off a New York area code and a number. "Call them and tell them Mr. Cartwright will be visiting this afternoon."

Elizabeth sighed. "Do I need to tell Peter about Mr. Cartwright?"

"He already knows. Well. Suspects. Not important," Neal added. "Noel Cartwright. Just tell them he's visiting, and meet me at 7th and 39th."

"Garment district," Elizabeth said. "Exciting. Excuse me," she added to the cabdriver. "7th and 39th, please."

He swerved across two lanes to get into a turn lane. Elizabeth turned back to the phone.

"By the way," Neal said, "your name for the afternoon is Ellen Taylor. T-A-Y-L-O-R. You're with me."

"We're not robbing someone, are we?" Elizabeth asked. The cabdriver gave her another look, but he didn't seem overly concerned.

"It's not robbing if they give it to you," Neal said. "See you there."

Before she could ask anything further, he'd hung up.

The number he gave her turned out to be the showroom floor for Calvin Klein. Elizabeth, intrigued, told the woman she spoke to that Mr. Cartwright was going to be visiting; this brought on a flurry of excitement, and questions about when and what Mr. Cartwright was interested in. She told them gloves and shirts, which brought on more excitement; apparently there was a boutique nearby that he simply had to investigate. Elizabeth listened patiently and then got off the phone as quickly as she could.

Neal was waiting for her when she arrived, standing in the shadow of the giant needle-and-button sculpture near the Garment District info kiosk, looking smug. He saw her coming and held the door for her as she climbed out.

"Neal," she said, when he kissed her cheek in greeting, "who is Noel Cartwright? He freaks people out."

"Noel Cartwright is a designer," Neal told her, grinning wide. "His taste is impeccable. He designs one beautiful dress per year, but he's rumored to be the guiding hand behind half of the west-coast fashion houses."

"Rumored, hm?" she asked.

"It was an amusement," he said. "Gossip does amazing things in the industry. Once Noel Cartwright was established, I could stroll into any showroom and get whatever I wanted. I used to take Kate along," he added, and his eyes went distant and unhappy for a little while. Then he turned back to her with the same broad smile. "Sometimes Mozzie, too. He's surprisingly well-versed in men's fashion."

"Those who can't do, teach?" she asked. Neal laughed.

"Something like that. Come on, Calvin Klein is waiting," he said, guiding her down the street.

"What happened to Noel Cartwright when you were arrested?" she asked. Neal gave her a sly look.

"He suffered a nervous breakdown and went to Sardinia for his health," he said. "Mozzie took care of it. He's good at keeping aliases active. Allegedly."

"These people look at clothing, Neal. They're not going to notice your tracking anklet?"

"Well, I wore a wide cut today," Neal said, straightening out his leg as they walked so she could see his ankle. He must have tucked it up against his calf; the bulge of it was barely visible, even when she was looking for it. "Besides, I'll just say it's a health monitor, and the stuff on my hands is a dye accident. Fashion people are insane, they won't question."

"So you're just going to walk into Calvin Klein and they'll give you free stuff," Elizabeth said, not sure if she was skeptical, disapproving, or impressed.

"You too, if you want it," he said, bending down to whisper it in her ear.

"Let's just get you those gloves," she told him, taking his hand and turning it over to study the random purple splatters on it. "What happened?"

As they walked, Neal told her about the end of the investigation; she'd had a text from Peter that they'd taken down the Architect, but not that they'd been taken hostage or blown up a couple of cash dye-packs in their hostage-taker's face. She felt proud of Neal, for being so brave, but more proud of Peter, for being so clever.

When they walked into the showroom, a woman in an expensive-looking dress pounced on them, smiling delightedly and a little crazily at Neal.

"Mr. Cartwright," she said, shaking his hand. "Annie Paige. Welcome back to New York. We've missed you."

"It's good to be back," Neal said, and Elizabeth saw him change, almost imperceptibly; nothing in his stance or face, exactly, but he seemed just a little bit...different. Haughtier. "This is Ms. Taylor. You spoke with her on the phone, I think?"

"Of course," Annie said, taking in Elizabeth's dress and bag. Elizabeth almost saw the woman write her off as an assistant, until she noticed Neal holding her hand. He squeezed it. "Delighted, Ms. Taylor. Are you looking today as well?"

"She's helping me," Neal told Annie, and to Elizabeth's shock he lifted the hand he was holding in his and kissed it. She was sure the affection in his eyes wasn't fake -- either for her benefit or Annie's. "I never make a decision without El's input anymore."

Elizabeth saw herself rise another notch in Annie's estimation.

"Wonderful," she said. "I'm sure we can help you find what you're looking for. Come this way, we have the new fall shirts in, gorgeous colors -- by the way, I have to ask, is that a Devore?"

"Genuine vintage," Neal told her, showing off the cut of the suit a little. "They don't make them like this anymore."

"I know, it's such a shame. I'm sure you'll be able to do something about that, though? Now that you're back."

"Just getting reacquainted," Neal said. Elizabeth watched him build a whole persona of lies, some not even spoken, and all at once she understood why it had taken her brilliant and determined husband three years to catch him. "I'm not sure I'm staying yet."

"Well, let's see if we can't convince you," Annie said.

While Neal talked shirts with some designer (who looked genuinely awed to be in the presence of Noel Cartwright), Elizabeth made herself at home as Ellen Taylor, with a comfortable chair and a glass of wine that Annie brought her. She sipped and listened as Neal turned up his nose at one gorgeous shirt after another, denigrating the new lower collars and bemoaning the fact that nobody knew how to operate a cufflink anymore. Finally he turned to her, holding up a shirt that looked about a size too big for him -- beautiful sky blue, though, with almost microscopic white pinstripes.

"El, what do you think?" he asked. She pretended to consider it.

"Those shoulders, Noel," she said finally, shaking her head. "It's not your fit."

He gave her an approving glance for the use of his name. "I was thinking your friend Peter might like it." He turned to the designer briefly. "Peter -- " he made a gesture indicating wide shoulders.

Elizabeth tapped a fingernail against her lips, enjoying herself immensely now that she had a better idea of how this worked. "I don't know. Wasn't he saying pinstripes were over?"

"I didn't hear him say that," Neal replied, considering it. "No, I don't think he'd say something like that."

She tried not to laugh. No, Peter wasn't the kind of man to say pinstripes were over. "Do you think they'd read, on-camera?"

Neal looked delighted. "Well, Peter would know. I'll have to bring him down here. Might take some convincing, though."

"Why don't I box up this shirt for you?" the designer asked eagerly. "Any friend of Mr. Cartwright's should definitely be convinced to visit the showroom. Don't you agree, Ms. Taylor?"

"Oh, I think Peter's reaction would be priceless," she said. The designer hurried off with the shirt. Neal sat down on the arm of the chair and stole a sip of wine from her.

"You're inspired," he told her.

"That's because I'm brilliant," she replied. "I thought we were looking for gloves for you, though."

"All part of the con, Ms. Taylor," Neal said, nodding towards the front of the showroom. A young man in designer jeans was standing near the doorway, watching them discreetly. "Ten bucks says he's here to convince me to come to his showroom and look at his wares."

"What's up with his hair?" Elizabeth asked. One side of his head was shaved; the other side had purple hair down to his chin, artfully covering one eye.

"Fashion," Neal told her.

The rest of the afternoon was certainly a new experience. She'd seen Neal work people before -- working people was something he did all the time, at lunch or in a museum or on the street, just because he could -- but she'd never actually seen him working with a specific goal in mind. He could have gone to any of a hundred stores in New York and bought a pair of gloves in half an hour, but clearly he enjoyed the long game more, even if it was harder work.

Neal was just having half a dozen gorgeous calfskin leather gloves packaged up for him to take as "samples" when her phone rang.

"Hi, Peter," she said, grinning to herself.

"Hey hon. Are you with Neal?"

"Kind of," she answered, as Noel Cartwright shook hands with a new arrival.

"Kind of?" Peter asked. Elizabeth drifted away, studying a pair of mannequins draped in blue silk.

"I don't think he's feeling himself at the moment," she said. "I'll explain when I get home."

"I thought he was buying gloves. He has to go to the garment district to buy gloves?"

"You're peeking at his map," Elizabeth replied.

"I'm checking his map," Peter corrected.

"He's fine, Peter. He's enjoying himself."

"Are you?"

Elizabeth laughed. "I'm having a good time. Are you at the office?"

"Just wrapping up. Want to meet somewhere for dinner? Bout half an hour? I was thinking that grill near the courthouse."

"I'll ask," she said, covering the phone with her hand. "Noel?"

"Yes?" Neal asked, looking up from where he was examining a set of linen swatches.

"Peter wants to meet for dinner. Sixish. Too early? We had reservations for eight," El improvised. They had reservations for nowhere, but Noel Cartwright was the kind of person who would.

Neal mulled it, even as Peter was demanding _Noel?_ in her ear, but Neal clearly caught her line of thought. "They can change the reservations. They will for me, anyway. Tell him we'll be there."

"Noel _Cartwright?_ " Peter asked. "He's committing fraud, isn't he. He's making you commit fraud. I'm going to kill him."

"Don't," Elizabeth said. "We'll explain it when we see you. Kisses now," she added, and hung up on Peter sputtering.

"He's going to kill us both," Neal told her in an undertone, on the pretense of examining dresses next to her.

"He can't kill me, we're married. There's a no-homicide clause in the prenup," she replied. "Ready to go?"

An assistant carried their prizes out to a waiting cab for them: six pairs of gloves, the shirt from Calvin Klein for Peter, and two shirts from Prada for Neal. In the backseat of the cab, Elizabeth gave the address to the driver, leaned back, looked at Neal, and burst out laughing. Neal's smile was brilliant.

"So," she said, poking around in the bags full of boxes in the backseat with them. Half a dozen designers' business cards had found their way into the bags. "That's what you used to do for fun."

"It was fun, though, right?" Neal asked, sitting back, relaxing now that the act was over. He stretched an arm along the back of the seat, running his fingertips over her hair. "I could have found you a great dress, if you'd let me."

"I don't need a dress, Neal," she said, a little startled by the open admiration on his face. "Thank you, though."

"You pulled that off like a champ," he told her, leaning in. "Very impressive work, Ms. Taylor."

"Don't get above yourself, Mr. Cartwright," she told him, poking him gently in the chest. "You could have been in big trouble."

"It's harmless," Neal said. "As harmless as these things get, anyway. They were happy to give me the clothing, and in return -- "

"Oh, they get something in return?" she asked.

"Yeah. Social currency. Noel Cartwright visited their showroom. You know that little tiny closet of a shirt shop we went into? Tomorrow half the designers in New York will be there to scout out what makes them so special. A con isn't always something for nothing, you know. If nothing else, when I work, someone always gets an interesting experience."

"What about you? Other than the gloves. What do you get? Why do you do it?" she asked.

Neal ducked his head. "Because it's fun. Because I can." He looked up at her. "Because I wanted to impress you. Did I?"

"Thoroughly impressed," she assured him.

"Good," Neal replied, sitting back again. "Another triumph for Noel Cartwright."

"Any reason for that particular name?"

Neal shrugged. "That way when they monogrammed my handkerchiefs, they still got the initials right."

When they pulled up to the restaurant, Peter was on the sidwalk, pacing. When he saw them, he stopped and did his best FBI Special Agent stance, feet spread wide, arms crossed. His badge gleamed on his hip.

"Hi, honey," Elizabeth said brightly, kissing him on the cheek. Neal, emerging from the cab with the bags, gave him an equally cheerful look. Peter narrowed his eyes.

"You're lucky I didn't have the Marshals pick you up on the way here," he said.

"Well, I had a hostage," Neal replied. "Give me thirty seconds, I'll explain."

"Thirty seconds to weasel out of me putting you back in prison for committing fraud and corrupting my wife."

"I keep telling you, she doesn't need my help -- "

"Twenty-eight," Peter said.

"Okay! Okay! Make you a deal," Neal said, talking fast. "You don't put me in prison and I'll explain the Cartwright scam start to finish. The whole thing."

"And kill off Noel Cartwright," Peter added.

"And kill off Noel Cartwright," Neal agreed. A stroke of inspiration seemed to hit. "Beautiful private ceremony in Sardinia. And I'll pay for dinner."

"And we got you a present," El added, holding up the bag with Peter's new shirt in it. Peter glanced down at it.

"Ill-gotten gains, plus bribery," he told her.

"I can offer sexual favors too," Neal said.

"Get off the street," Peter ordered, jerking his head at the restaurant door. Neal went, casting a wink at Elizabeth over Peter's shoulder. She rubbed Peter's arm, and he unfolded enough to wrap one around her, the Fed mask dropping off immediately.

"I did have a good time," she said, tipping her chin up to rest it on his shoulder. "Let him explain, it's actually really interesting."

"You could have been in big trouble," Peter said. "Why couldn't he just take you to Barney's?"

"You know that's not Neal," she said.

"No, it's Noel," Peter growled. "Noel Cartwright was a person of interest in a massive silk theft from the Garment District in 2004."

"But he's dead now, remember?" she said, and kissed him. "And it's a really nice shirt, sweetie. And I heard the two of you had a rough day."

Peter gave her another kiss. "Fine. But I'm not wearing the shirt."

"Oh, you are wearing the shirt," she told him, as they walked inside. Neal waved at them from a table he'd already laid claim to.

***

The next morning, Neal's desk was piled with slim powder-blue boxes. When Peter walked in, he was showing off a pair of cream leather gloves to a small assembly of agents.

"Everything leaves a print," Neal was saying, holding forth like a visiting lecturer. "Cotton, nylon, leather; you can leave a print through latex if you're handling something hard enough. Leather can be as individual as a fingerprint, but you scuff up a pair of anything and they can still incriminate you. They cut dexterity and sensitivity, too. The easiest way to keep from getting your prints tied to a crime is not to touch stuff, or to have an excuse for having touched it earlier. Still, if you trash the gloves afterward..." he pulled one of the gloves on. It matched his skin-tone almost exactly. "It looks a little Uncanny Valley up close, but if nobody's paying much attention you can usually get away with wearing skin-dyed gloves."

Peter caught his wrist from behind and held up the gloved hand. Neal didn't startle; he was always aware of everyone in the room. But he did turn around to face Peter.

"Thus endeth the lesson," Peter told their audience, then turned to Neal. "You better only have a demonstration pair of these."

Neal grinned. "Check your inside pocket."

Peter let Neal go and patted his jacket, pulling a pair of thin black gloves out of it. Then he patted it again to make sure his wallet was still there. Neal peeled off the glove he was wearing and put it back in one of the boxes, taking the black gloves out of Peter's hand. He pulled them on, tightening them snug against his fingers as the rest of the White Collar unit wandered off to do their actual jobs.

"I like that shirt," Neal added in a low voice. Peter glanced down at the sky-blue shirt, with the nearly-not-there white pinstripes. He wouldn't have admitted it to either Neal or El, but he couldn't fault the fit. It gave at the shoulders more than his usual shirts did. "Gift from the wife?"

"Something like that." Peter gave him a warning look.

When he got to his office there was a newspaper on his desk, with a little document flag attached to one page; he opened to that page to find a small news piece on the sudden death of fashion expert Noel Cartwright, who had collapsed of a heart attack the previous evening.

***

Aside from the fact that Diana was pretty badass, the fact that she was totally immune to Neal's charms fascinated him.

Not just sexual charms. It wasn't like he'd never met a lesbian before, and if he always depended on sex appeal he'd never be able to con a straight man either. Neal prided himself on being able to charm _anyone_ , and he had a lot more tools than just his looks at his disposal. Even Cruz had been a little bit of a sucker for his Incompetent Goofball act.

Diana fell for absolutely none of them. She was friendly with him, and they worked well together, but she steadfastly failed to be charmed by him. It was bruising to the ego at first, but once he got past that he became intrigued. Surely something must work.

They were working an investigation into campaign contributions fraud, with Neal posing as a "fixer" for a local senator, when he found out that Peter was meeting with Diana outside of work and ditching Neal in order to do so. He was acting like a cheating husband, which was really pretty funny when you thought about it.

But it also made Neal nervous, because he was the guy Peter was supposed to be meeting with in secret after work. Not only was Peter meeting with Diana instead, but Diana was an enigma to Neal, and -- looked at one way -- a competitor.

"But I swear to God that's not why I told Jennings she was a hooker when he showed me the surveillance photos," Neal said, griping to Mozzie about the whole situation over dinner on the terrace.

"No, because you've never been known to be spiteful," Mozzie agreed.

"Seriously, it's not," Neal said. "I saw an opportunity to get someone inside on the other end, and I took it. I like Diana, it's not like I want to take her down or something. I just don't get what angle to use on her."

"Maybe she hasn't got one. We always theorized such a person would exist," Mozzie mused. "A person who cannot be charmed by Neal Caffrey. It's like the Holy Grail."

"You are not helping me at all," Neal told him.

"I don't see why this is so important to you," Moz said. "You're the one sleeping with the boss, he's not going to pick Lady Suit -- "

"She has a name! Use her name!"

Moz tilted his head. "How come you get upset every time I say Mrs. Suit or Lady Suit but not when I call Burke the Suit?"

Neal scowled. "That's not the point. The point is, yeah, I'm the one sleeping with the boss. So why is he meeting with her? And not telling me?"

"Is that part of the deal?" Mozzie asked. "Full disclosure?"

Neal stared at him. "It is for me."

" _Really._ "

"Okay, maybe not full disclosure. But definitely some disclosure. Argh, Mozzie," Neal said, resting his forehead on his wrists. "And I have to spend all night in the van tonight while we keep an eye on Diana."

"You hate the van."

"I know I hate the van. It always smells like sweaty polyester."

The truth was, Neal hated the van because it meant someone else was doing the interesting stuff. So, when Diana's new would-be pimp told her to find a mark and work him for ten grand, Neal quietly slipped out of the van without anyone noticing.

It wasn't hard to find Diana; she was at the bar, about to move on some middle-aged, hopeful-looking guy in a badly-tailored suit. Neal stepped up, offered to buy her a drink, and tried not to think about the fact that Peter was probably having a coronary.

He lived for this kind of con. Him and a partner in a room full of marks, with their outside guy doing the rigging. He and Kate and Moz had run a lot of cons this way, Mozzie setting things up so Neal and Kate could knock something down. Plus, it wasn't difficult to sit in a swanky bar and flirt with a beautiful woman.

Okay, maybe it was a little difficult, because when he egged her into getting closer, she sat down on his lap.

Which was nice, you know, if you were looking forward to a fun night, but not so much if the woman on your lap was a colleague you were passive-aggressively competing with for attention from the boss.

"Is this doing anything for you?" he asked, because it was doing unfortunate things for him.

"Not a damn thing," she replied, and shifted her thigh against his crotch. There was no way she didn't feel that.

"What were you gonna do if I hadn't come in?" he asked, scrambling for a distraction.

"Well, I'd've put this strawberry in that guy's mouth, taken him up to my room -- " not helping, not helping, " -- put a gun between his ribs and told him to shut up and sit tight or I'd arrest him for solicitation."

It was actually a pretty good plan. Possibly better than his current one.

"That is really sexy," he told her. He was trying to think of very unsexy things, like the way the van smelled, but it wasn't working terribly well.

"Yeah," she agreed, and then leaned in close. "I'm not taking it personally, Caffrey."

"Oh thank God," he mumbled.

Things improved a little when they got to the penthouse, because they stopped touching and Neal felt like he could clear his head, chattering aimlessly about anything that crossed his mind. Granted, it wouldn't work on Diana, but it made him feel better. Diana's radio wasn't working at this distance, but Peter knew where they were and it was likely that right now Mozzie was putting Peter through a couple of really funny hoops. So all they had to do was wait.

"You are a deeply inappropriate human being," Diana told him, as they settled into the room.

"You know it's not you, right? Cons are a turn-on," Neal said. "Why else would anyone do them?"

"This isn't a con, it's an op, and it was totally me," Diana said.

"Yeah, okay, part of it was," Neal agreed. "But I respect you as a colleague and I would never hump you outside of the line of duty."

"Thanks," she said drily. "You know I had this covered, right? You didn't need to jump in. If I want help I'll call for it."

Neal rubbed his face. "I was bored," he said. "The van is so boring, Diana."

"I don't care," she told him. "The world doesn't exist for your entertainment."

"Obviously," he muttered.

"I think you just can't resist showing off for Burke," she continued, sitting down and flicking her high heels off gracefully. "You're always doing that."

"I do not show off for Burke," Neal said.

"Yeah you do. With me more than Jones, too. The only reason I don't get more pissed about it is that you're not in line for my promotion," Diana said. Neal stared at her, stunned. "I mean, it's not like there's anywhere to promote you _to_."

"That's -- " Neal felt like that time he and Mozzie had got their morse code cipher mixed up and telegraphed gibberish at each other for a while before realizing what was going on. "That's not for Peter," he said finally. Diana raised an eyebrow. "That was me trying to impress you."

She sighed. "You do _get_ that I'm gay, right? Even if I were single, which I'm not, I am never, ever going to sleep with you."

"Not like that," Neal protested. "Just -- I don't get what the angle is with you."

"The angle," she repeated, in her _I'm about to shoot you_ voice.

"Yeah, like, nothing I have works on you. Not just sex," he added, waving a hand dismissively. "Nothing. You are un-charmable. It's really annoying."

"I'm sorry I don't smile enough for you," she said, sarcasm biting like a whip.

"Oh my _god_ I'm fucking this up," he groaned, leaning forward, putting his face into his hands. "I don't want you to fake it. I don't want you to smile because I want you to smile. I just want you to like me and nobody has ever not liked me before when I've really been putting the work in."

Diana was silent for a while. Neal finally leaned back, looking up.

"So, let me see if I get this," she said. "You want me to like you."

"Yeah."

"And it's okay if _you_ fake it, as long as I like you for real. Even though it's not really you."

Neal gaped.

"You are fucked up, Caffrey," she said. "I mean, because one, I do like you, when you're not being an asshole and getting in my way. Two, you don't actually have to fake it, because I can tell when you are. And three, does this mean you will stop screwing around while I'm trying to do my job?"

"Uh," Neal said. He wasn't sure he was actually getting any of this. "Wait, what?"

"Stop trying out angles," she said. "Do your job, not mine. Stop treating the FBI as your own personal con, because as far as I can tell you have no goal other than 'close cases'. I promise I'll like you anyway."

"Oh," Neal said.

"Yeah, take a moment to work that out," she told him.

"So I'm going to...stop trying to make you like me," Neal said slowly, "and that's going to make me more likable."

"Yeah, that's the basic theory."

"Oh," he repeated.

"Man, you're funny when someone messes you up," she told him, grinning a little. "We people of the real world greet you, Neal Caffrey, and welcome you to our domain."

"I'm still ordering room service," he told her. "I'm not doing it to impress you. I'm starving."

She rolled her eyes, but when he ordered dumplings she held up two fingers, indicating she wanted some too. And hey, by the end of the evening he was drinking champagne and drawing on the hotel room wall in a bathrobe, so things could have gone worse.

"What did Diana do to you?" Peter asked him, a couple of days later when he had stopped sulking over the moustache incident.

"What?" Neal asked.

"She's got you eating out of her hand. It's fascinating and tragic," Peter told him. "The mighty have fallen."

"I don't think it's tragic. We bonded. I like Diana," Neal informed him. "And she likes me," he added, a little proud.

"...and?" Peter asked.

"No 'and'." Neal shrugged. "We get along. Why, would you rather we fight all the time? Are you _jealous?_ "

"You make everything around you weirder," Peter said.

"I know," Neal agreed happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> Section, Elevation, and plan of Brunelleschi's **[Santo Spirito](http://hdl.library.upenn.edu/1017/d/archives/20100712002)**  
>  **[La Mort de la Femme Toréro](http://www.pablo-ruiz-picasso.net/images/works/2042.jpg)** , by Picasso  
>  **[Ajax and Achilles at the game board](http://mv.vatican.va/3_EN/pages/x-Schede/MGEs/MGEs_Sala19_04_056.html)** , by Exekias  
> The Fashion/Garment District of New York has the World's Largest Button atop its **[information kiosk.](http://www.fashioncenter.com/about/contact-us/kiosk)**


	9. Chapter 9

The request, when it came, startled Peter; he'd been expecting something, but this wasn't it.

"I want to see the interrogation tapes of Kate," Neal said, looking nervous. He had every reason to look nervous; he knew what he was asking and what Peter's reaction was likely to be.

It was ten weeks since Kate had died. Neal had been out of prison less than a month. Peter should have kept him busy, but there were no new cases, and the colder cases were all, well, cold. They'd been doing a lot of paperwork, Neal's least favorite activity ever. He'd taken to filling them out in mirror-writing.

Peter set his pen down and sat back, studying Neal in the chair across the desk from him. "Why?" he asked.

"It's important," Neal said.

"I agree, it's important to know why," Peter replied. Neal gave him a frustrated look. "Whether you get to or not depends on what you say, Neal."

"I guess I can't just ask what the right answer would be," Neal said, a hint of Caffrey charm showing through.

"Yep," Peter replied, unamused. "Why do you want to watch my people interrogate your dead girlfriend, Neal?"

Neal slouched forward, elbows on knees, and didn't answer. Peter waited.

"I want to see what she said," he said finally.

"You want to see her again."

"No!" Neal looked up. "I mean -- I do, but that's not -- I just need to see."

"Well, you have to explain," Peter told him. "If you don't know, figure it out."

"You're such an asshole sometimes," Neal told him.

"That's why I make the big bucks," Peter replied ruthlessly.

"What the hell harm is it going to do? Is it going to hurt her? She's dead, Peter."

"Something you should remember."

"I do," Neal snarled. This rage was new; Neal never got angry. Peter watched warily as Neal got himself under control. "I remember every day."

Peter leaned forward and met his eyes. Neal looked away first.

"You tell me why you want to see," he said, "and then we find out if you get to."

Neal chewed on his lip while Peter waited patiently.

"I don't know who she was," he said, finally. He glanced at Peter, but Peter just watched him. "I think...okay." He steepled his hands and tapped his fingers against his lips. "Keller."

Peter gave him a startled look. "Well, that's a leap."

"No...so. I thought we were screwing around. He thought we were _dating_. At least, I'm pretty sure," Neal said. "It explains some things, anyway."

"Hell hath no fury?" Peter suggested.

"And I think I did that a lot. I know I did it to Alex. Sometimes I don't see what's actually going on."

"You're not quick on the uptake," Peter told him. Neal's eyes widened. "I was telling you this a year ago. Kate wasn't who you thought she was. I told you this, Neal."

"I know, okay? But I don't know what was really her and what was me seeing what I wanted to see. I want to know."

"So this isn't about finding her killer?" Peter asked, skeptical.

"The tapes are five years old, Peter. It's about finding out who she was."

Peter leaned back and studied the ceiling for a while. He could hear Neal's fingers tapping against his knees.

"And you think Kate was more honest with me and my people?" he asked finally. "She was a lockdown, Neal. We didn't get anything out of her she didn't want to give. It's not going to help."

"I'd like to see for myself," Neal insisted. Peter leaned forward again.

"Yeah, okay. If I can get you the tapes, they're yours," he said. Neal looked...not pleased, exactly, but satisfied. "Lemme ask you something."

Neal looked hesitant. Peter couldn't really blame him.

"What do you think we are?" Peter asked. "You, me, Elizabeth. You see what you want to see there, too?"

"You really want to talk about that here?" Neal said, gesturing to Peter's glass-walled office.

"No," Peter said. "But I want an answer. Tonight, maybe."

"Working late?" Neal asked. Peter nodded. "Okay."

"Neal," Peter said belatedly, as Neal stood to leave, because this could not be said too many times. "The tapes aren't a trade. You want them, they're yours, if I can get them. Working late's not a payment. It's an option."

Neal cocked an eyebrow at him. "Do you want me to say no?"

"No!" Peter said. "But -- "

"Then stop telling me I can. I'm a bright boy, boss, I get it," Neal said, and tipped the brim of his hat a little before he left.

***

Elizabeth brought home dinner that night -- leftover sandwiches and little pastry things from an afternoon event, lots of stuff with toothpicks stuck into it. Peter wrapped his arms around her in the kitchen while she was doling them out onto plates, kissing her cheek from behind.

"Guess what I brought home," he said, and tipped his head at Neal, leaning in the doorway. Neal doffed his hat.

"Oh good," Elizabeth said. "I didn't bring any dessert. You think of everything," she added, craning her head to look up at Peter.

"I see how it is," Neal announced. "I'm here so you can curry favor with your wife."

"It's working," Elizabeth replied.

"I'd be offended if it wasn't," Neal said, ducking out of the kitchen. Peter didn't let go of Elizabeth, humming into her hair in a cheerful kind of way as she fixed a third plate with sandwiches.

"He's not allergic to nuts, right?" she asked. "There's walnuts in the stuffed pastry."

"No," Peter said. Allergies, along with everything else about Neal, were filed away both at the Bureau and in his head. Prison medical records, too, which was one reason he'd never bothered to bring up condoms. Neal was clean, or had been when he'd left prison. By his own admission he hadn't been with anyone but them since.

Neal returned, sans hat and jacket, sleeves rolled up, and took up his place in the doorway again. He liked to do that, wait on thresholds, linger and watch until he was invited in. As if some day he might not be invited, and he'd have a good excuse to leave. For all Neal's talk about not saying no, he had an awfully hard time saying yes. Still, usually he at least looked hopeful. Tonight he looked...

He looked _tired_.

Peter left El at the counter with a kiss to the side of her neck and crossed the kitchen. Neal watched him, eyes flicking to Elizabeth occasionally. Peter caught him by the back of the neck, tugged him just enough to get him to step forward, and kissed him. Neal pushed immediately, like he always did, trying for more touch, a deeper kiss; Peter blocked him, leaning back.

"Hungry?" he asked. Neal glanced at Elizabeth again. "Neal. Here."

Neal's eyes focused on Peter's face.

"Hungry?" Peter repeated.

"Not really," Neal said, docile under Peter's hand.

"Upstairs," Peter told him. "Lie down. El and I are going to have dinner. We'll be up when we're done."

Neal licked his lips. "What -- "

"Neal," Peter said. Neal waited, still and placid, until Peter let him go. He elbowed the kitchen door open and went, a little cocky, but Peter could give him that. His footsteps were quiet on the stairs.

When he turned back to Elizabeth, she had a piece of pastry halfway to her mouth.

"You know sometimes you're just ridiculously hot," she told him, setting the pastry back on her plate. Peter preened a little. "What are you doing?"

"It was a hard day to be Neal," Peter told her. "Bet you he's asleep when we go up."

El gave him a look.

"What? We can take him a sandwich if you're going to be like that," he said. She laughed and kissed him.

***

Neal woke in half-light and to confusing sounds; his skin felt heavy, brain numb, tongue thick.

"...told you." Peter's rumble of a voice, somewhere nearby.

"Bet you didn't think he'd be naked." And that was Elizabeth, and they were talking about him. He wasn't quite sure if he was dreaming; reality was blurring a little bit.

"I think he misunderstood my intent," Peter replied. Neal grunted and rolled over, tangling up in the blanket he'd pulled over himself at some point. The bed creaked a little as Elizabeth sat down on it.

"Hi, babe," she said, bending to kiss him. She tasted like red peppers and vinaigrette. When she was done, he felt marginally more awake, pushing himself up in the bed.

"I didn't mean to fall asleep," he said. "You took your damn time with dinner."

"I wasn't aware I told you we were going to rush," Peter said.

"How long does it take to eat a -- " Neal broke off sharply, because Peter was frowning.

"I told you we'd be up when we were done," Peter said. "Was I unclear?"

Neal shook his head.

"So? Here we are," Peter spread his arms. "We got dinner, you got to rest. Problem?"

"No," Neal murmured. "Why -- "

"Do you need an explanation?"

Oh, God.

But he didn't, not really. Peter had said they would be here; here they were. He didn't have to know why. Peter didn't lie to him, not about this. He trusted both of them not to lie, not to play games with him. Which meant he didn't have to understand, because -- because --

There it was. The place where there were no games, where he didn't have to think. He wouldn't want to live there, but it was so nice sometimes. Elizabeth was petting his hair, fingers threading through it, and he didn't have to run this. Someone else was taking care of things.

Peter hitched his hip against the fireplace near the bed, facing him. "I think it's time to answer the question, Neal. No wrong answers," he added. Neal looked at Elizabeth, but she didn't seem confused; Peter must have told her. And if he hadn't, then it still wasn't Neal's fault. He wouldn't be _blamed._

"So?" Peter said. "Us. Here. What do you see? What are we?"

Neal rubbed his face, trying to clear sleep from his brain. He didn't know; they hadn't exactly established many rules. Maybe Peter wanted him to do that. That would be like Peter, because Peter constantly worried about Neal's involvement in...this. As if Neal's enthusiasm in bed didn't prove he was really into it, or something. But he didn't want to set the rules, because if they didn't like them...

"Me," he said slowly, drawing his legs up, circling them with his arms over the blanket. He looked at Elizabeth. "Elizabeth." He looked up from her to Peter, arms crossed again now. "Peter," he added, and then choked on the word, but got it out anyway. "...Sir."

Peter's eyes darkened, but he smiled.

"He's so smart," he said to Elizabeth, reaching into his pocket. He tossed something small and bright to her. "Honey?"

Elizabeth held up the object and Neal felt a shock shoot through him. Handcuffs, real FBI-issue, tough but not impossible to slip or pick; Neal supposed he made bondage difficult, but he was more than willing to bow a little to the myth.

He offered his left arm. Elizabeth kissed his wrist and looked to Peter; he nodded and she tightened the cuff around Neal's wrist, pushing him down with a hand on his chest and fixing the other cuff to the bedside table. The headboard wouldn't work -- it was one thick solid piece of wood, elegant but not practical for their purposes.

Elizabeth seemed to agree. "This bed is not well-designed for tying people up," she told Peter, who snorted.

"It wasn't a huge part of our sex life until recently," he pointed out. "Neal's good though, right?"

Neal, closing his eyes, rattled the cuff and nodded. "Makes me all nostalgic," he said.

"Smartass," Peter told him. "They handcuffed him to a radiator in Des Moines one time," he continued, apparently for El's benefit. "He asked for a glass of icewater. An hour later, they checked up on him and look Ma, no Caffrey. They didn't even find the cuffs. One of 'em was convinced he was a witch."

"Sudden temperature changes -- "

"Did I ask you to talk?" Peter said. Neal fell silent. "Sudden temperature changes make cheap metal brittle," he told Elizabeth. "He snapped the cuff hinges around the radiator pipe and picked up the pieces after him before he left. Cocky," he added fondly.

There was warmth up against him then, from an unexpected direction; Neal realised that while his eyes had been closed, Peter had been stripping down. When he opened them, Peter was lying next to him, chin propped on Neal's shoulder; Elizabeth, still sitting on the other side of him, was undressing. He couldn't really reach up to help, not one-handed and at this angle. Besides, Peter had him mostly pinned, on the side that wasn't bound to the bedside table. There was nothing he could do.

Neal thought sane people in this kind of situation probably panicked. Instead, he could feel his muscles unknotting one by one, shoulders dropping, the sweet-burn ache in his thighs and calves as his whole body went relaxed and pliable.

"Good," Peter said against his shoulder, voice vibrating there. Neal felt Peter's hand smooth down his stomach as Elizabeth turned back and kissed him, her breasts brushing his chest and Peter's arm. Peter stroked his cock slowly, until Elizabeth eased back and pushed his arm aside, nudging him away as she straddled Neal.

Peter, with a laugh, moved lower, cupping Neal's balls, then sliding along his thigh. Elizabeth made a soft, satisfied sound, shifting her hips a little, settling around him. Slow and easy, sleepy sex, El was so gorgeous and there was no hurry, no reason to rush. The longer he drew this out, arching languidly, the longer the cuff would stay around his wrist.

Still, it sluggishly crossed his mind that Peter was getting a raw deal here, and Neal was opening his mouth to say so when Peter caught his eye and shook his head.

"This is what I want from you right now," he said. "Be good."

Neal bucked a little, on the order, and Elizabeth moaned.

"Hey, part three up here," she said. Peter turned to watch her and Neal ran his free hand up her side, stroking her skin. When he brushed his thumb across her nipple, she moaned again.

Peter's hand let go of his thigh, and the warm line of him against Neal's body vanished briefly; Neal concentrated on Elizabeth, because that was what he was supposed to do, mumbling about how good she felt, how much he liked it when she said his name. Peter was back quickly enough, propping himself on an arm to kiss Elizabeth, and his other hand slid up Neal's thigh again, slick and cool, and --

Neal's eyes went wide when Peter dipped below his balls, rubbing lubricant around his hole. Peter pushed a finger inside slowly and Neal bucked hard, holding tight to Elizabeth's hip to keep her stable. Peter just stayed there, kissing Elizabeth, finger inside him moving slowly until Neal thought he would shake apart from the sensation -- gasping, much faster now, unraveling and moaning. Elizabeth was using Peter's shoulder for leverage, hips jerking forward a little every time Neal thrust inside her.

"Love you," Peter said, into El's mouth, but when he did his hand pushed up against Neal and it wasn't just for Elizabeth and Elizabeth clenched around him and Neal came so hard he couldn't breathe.

He was panting still as Elizabeth toppled off him against Peter, laughing and nuzzling Peter's chest before she dropped to the bed, kissing the rise of muscle in Neal's outstretched arm. Neal tried to pull Peter forward, because he really wanted to show that he _understood_ , he wanted to say thank you, he wanted to be good --

The handcuff jerked his arm sharply as he tried to get to Peter, almost toppling the lamp on the bedside table.

"Peter, Peter," he said, pulling at it. "Come on, lemme -- "

"Oh, that again?" Peter asked, grinning from his place near Neal's thigh. Neal whined and Peter gave in, edging up the bed so Neal could prop himself on his free arm and nuzzle Peter's hip, get the smell of him, get his mouth on Peter's cock. God, he wanted --

"It's okay," Peter said, as Neal sucked around the head of his cock, wanting the soft noises Peter always made, the moment when he let go. He ducked his head and took more, hollowing his cheeks, Peter's cock thick on his tongue. Peter's hand rested on the back of his head, fingers curling in his hair. "Neal, that's good," he murmured, and Neal flushed with pleasure. His arm jerked against the cuff again.

"Sweetie," El said, uncertainly, but Neal looked up at Peter, pleading, and Peter shook his head.

"He wants it," he said. "Don't you, Neal?"

Neal hummed contentedly and Peter let out a hiss.

"Not from anyone else, ever," Peter told him, and Neal moaned. "Nobody but us, Neal, I -- ah -- " he broke off as his hips jerked. "I swear, you're ours, nobody else is going to -- "

Neal did a trick with his tongue that he'd been keeping in reserve for just such an occasion, and Peter cut off with a shout of surprise and came, fingers tugging on Neal's hair. It was the loudest Neal had ever heard him.

Peter slumped sideways while Neal sat up and licked his lips, pleased.

"Whoa," El said, resting her head on Neal's shoulder to watch her husband try and catch his breath. He looked dazed. "I think you broke him, Neal." 

Neal, wordless, was trying to memorize Peter's face, the slightly glassy look in his eyes. Peter fumbled in the blankets and came up with the handcuff key, offering it to Elizabeth, who bent around and undid the cuff from the bedside table. Neal stretched his arm back slowly. It sometimes cramped, but it was worth it. There were two red stripes across his wrist where the cuff had pulled. He'd be bruised. Elizabeth took the cuff off his wrist and nuzzled the marks, then let him cup her face with his hand, thumb rubbing her cheekbone.

Usually, El would curl up behind Peter, arm wrapped around his shoulder, and then Peter could let Neal be as close as he liked; this time she just stayed where she was as Peter eased himself down onto the pillows on Neal's other side. He looked a little self-conscious about how closely Neal and Elizabeth were watching him.

"This okay?" Elizabeth asked, rubbing Neal's shoulder gently, but she didn't mean the cramp.

"Yeah, s'fine," Neal said, wrapping an arm around her and settling back down in the bed. He turned his head back to Peter, who looked -- well, not quite so wrecked. He was looking at Neal like he'd found something valuable and wasn't quite sure what to do with it.

"Sir," Neal said, very softly, pleased to have finally put a name to this, pleased that he wasn't seeing this wrong. And if he did, Peter would tell him.

"Get some rest," Peter told him. "You look beat."

Elizabeth giggled against Neal's chest, stretching out a hand to touch Peter.

"You should see your face," she said.

Neal, curled between two bodies, closed his eyes and listened to Peter and Elizabeth bicker quietly about the funny face Peter was making and how Elizabeth had no room to talk, their voices tapering into sound as he drifted off.

Perhaps it was the unusual sleeping arrangement, or the fact that he'd settled enough to be really comfortable and let his guard down; Neal was never sure, but that evening his string of luck ran out.

_There was so much fire, and he'd shaken Peter off and managed to get into it but he couldn't find Kate, kept finding faceless women instead, kept seeing flashes of her and having to dodge fire to get to her. The smoke clogged his lungs; he tried to cough to clear his throat and couldn't do that, either, and there was music playing so very loud --_

He woke from the dream tense and sweating, every muscle tight. His ears were ringing and he couldn't get a proper breath; he struggled into consciousness gasping for air, pushing himself away from the weight on his chest (Peter's shoulder and arm) and the restraints on his legs (El's legs, one knee crossed over his). Peter was sitting up, looking confused. Neal propped himself on his elbows and heard a loud "Ah -- Ah -- Ah -- " and realized it was him, trying to breathe.

"Neal," Peter said, blinking. "Neal -- "

He couldn't get the words out, too busy inhaling huge lungfuls of air, air that was clean and cool and didn't taste like smoke. Peter put a hand on his chest and Neal batted it aside. Elizabeth was stirring next to him, mumbling wordless questions.

"I'm fine," he managed at last, his breathing slowing, arms trembling as the tension left them. "I'm -- hah -- ah -- I'm okay."

"Yeah, you look it," Peter drawled. Neal brushed hair out of his eyes, found it slick enough with sweat to stay combed back, and gave Peter a reassuring grin.

"Seriously, I'm not dying," he said, and this time when Peter put a hand on his chest he didn't stop him. "Bad dream. That's all."

"What's going on?" Elizabeth asked, finally waking, trying to sit up and almost tumbling off the edge of the bed. Neal darted out an arm around her waist and steadied her, swallowing dry-mouthed as he tried to work through the adrenaline. Elizabeth gave him one look and scooted closer.

"Sweetie, get him some water," she told Peter, who tumbled to his feet from the bed and walked to the door, mostly backwards, watching them both. Neal slid over to give Elizabeth more room, trying to wipe the sweat from his face.

"Easy," she said, voice low and soothing, exactly what he needed. "Easy, it's okay. Jesus, Neal, you're soaking."

Neal finally felt like he'd caught his breath. He leaned forward, pulling up his knees, resting his elbows on them. The cool air made the skin on his back prickle.

"Bad dream," he repeated.

"Sounds like it," she agreed. "You're here though, you're okay."

"It's my nervous disposition," he told her with a grin. She smiled and rubbed his back.

"Want to tell me about it?" she asked, as Peter returned with a glass of water and a towel slung over his shoulder. Neal took the water and sipped it; Peter tossed Elizabeth the towel and she smoothed it over Neal's hair.

"Sorry," Neal said quietly.

"Well, I personally blame you," Peter told him. Neal glanced up and saw him smiling reassuringly. He sat on the edge of the bed. "Take a minute. Nothing to be sorry about."

Elizabeth ran the towel down one sweat-damp arm, then left it in Neal's lap, pushing a little on the glass of water in his hand so that he'd drink again.

"Peter used to get nightmares," she said quietly. Neal looked at Peter, but his face was impassive, as if she were talking about someone else entirely. "His first few years with the Bureau he had some bad ones. I think...you see things and your brain can't process them at first."

"It's not about the Bureau," Neal said.

"Kate," Peter murmured.

"Yeah. There was a -- there was a lot of fire," Neal admitted. He lifted the towel and wiped his chest, rubbing an edge along his throat where the sweat pooled. "What time is it?"

"Only about ten," Peter said. "I was going to get up soon and do some work, come back around midnight. I was hoping you'd sleep through."

"You look tired," Elizabeth told him. "All the time."

"Well, guess why," Neal mumbled, but he couldn't really put any edge into it. Elizabeth kissed his shoulder. He felt Peter's hand on his head, which surprised him; Peter was pushing damp hair away from his face with a kind of delicate affection he'd only ever seen him show for Elizabeth before.

"Some of it is still about the Bureau," Peter said. "I think. It's normal. It's hard and ugly sometimes. You just have something...really bad that happened to you, and you focus it all on that."

"It'll be better," Neal said. "When we find out who did it, when I find out -- it'll stop."

Peter kissed his forehead. "No, it won't," he said, gently. "That's not how this works. But we will find out, I promise, and this will get better."

Neal closed his eyes. He could practically hear the looks Peter and Elizabeth were giving each other, until finally Peter shifted off the bed again.

"Off," he ordered, giving Neal a gentle shove. "The sheets are soaked."

Neal got to his feet and let Elizabeth pull him towards the closet while Peter stripped the bed, tossing the sheets in a corner. He did it briskly and efficiently, while Elizabeth found a shirt and pulled it over Neal's head, warm and dry and smelling like their laundry soap. When Peter was done, he kissed Elizabeth and then Neal, tucking his thumb up under Neal's chin.

"Stay with Elizabeth," he said. "I'm going to go do some work. Try to sleep."

Neal nodded.

"Good boy," Peter said, and Neal followed Elizabeth back to the bed. His heart was still racing, but not as fast as it had been; with her hand rubbing circles on his arm, her even breathing soft in the room, he closed his eyes and tried not to be afraid of what might happen if he did sleep again.

He woke briefly when Peter came back to bed, but not long enough to matter; the rest of his sleep was calm, until Elizabeth's alarm woke them all for breakfast.

***

That morning, instead of going straight to the White Collar offices on twenty-one, Peter punched the fifteenth floor button, the level for the main archives. He was touching Neal a _lot_ , more than usual -- hand on his back, fingers around his arm, shoulder brushing against him all morning while they'd made breakfast and dressed and driven to work.

Neal fidgeted with the left cuff of his shirt, thumb rubbing the bruising on his wrist for reassurance.

"Kate's tapes weren't turned over with the evidence on your case when you requested it," Peter said, as the elevator ascended. "She has her own file. I made a call."

"At midnight?" Neal asked, glancing at him.

"After dinner yesterday," Peter said. "You were asleep."

Neal caught his reflection in the mirrored steel of the elevator. He had to admit, he didn't look quite so weary; twelve hours of sleep, even interrupted by sex and nightmares, had probably been good for him.

Sex and Nightmares would be a really excellent title for a book. He should suggest it to Mozzie.

"They'll set you up with a laptop and headphones, everything's on DVD," Peter continued. "You can't take the tapes out of the room. I can stay if you want."

"I'll be okay," Neal said. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet," Peter told him. "I still think this isn't the smartest thing either of us have ever done. I don't think it'll help, Neal."

"It's not like it'll make it worse," Neal replied. Peter didn't answer, which was sort of ominous. Neal was beginning to realize that there were consequences involved in working for the FBI, and Peter knew a lot more about them than he did.

Peter left him with the archive manager, who took him to a little viewing desk and brought out a small stack of thin clear DVD cases, each marked with a date, a casefile number, the interrogating agent's name, and the subject's name: Kate Moreau. There were five; two were marked with the name Gerald Argyle, a man Neal remembered as having a soft voice, a brutal technique, and terrible breath (he privately believed this was part of his technique). One was marked Andrea Wright, a name he only recognized from his work with Peter four years on: she was a specialist interrogator, someone they brought in to crack difficult subjects.

"Smart girl," Neal said approvingly. If Kate had merited a specialist, she must have kicked ass.

The last two DVDs in the stack were marked Peter Burke.

Neal wondered, as he absently shuffled them into date order, why they'd never tried Wright on him. He'd had one session with Argyle and two with Burke and that had been it. He supposed Burke had got bored with Neal's staunch refusal to play that particular game. It was difficult to remember what they'd even talked about; the whole thing was a sort of terrifying blur.

Peter. Not Burke. The man who'd sat across from him at the interrogation table had been Peter. He'd left puzzles for Peter, he'd been arrested and interrogated and imprisoned by Peter, and last night he'd sucked Peter's cock, he'd _begged_ to suck Peter's cock. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with both of them?

He wondered how much Peter remembered of those sessions.

He put the first DVD into the tray, closed it, took a deep breath, and tapped "Play". An image flickered up of Kate, alone in the room, and Argyle entering through a door to her left. Neal sat back and began to watch.

***

Peter privately thought showing Neal tapes of Kate, especially a day after a really stupendous nightmare (Neal Caffrey: nothing if not an overachiever), was probably not a very good idea. Still, he had learned quickly that Neal tended to take an idea and run with it until he slammed into a wall, and no amount of tugging on his arm or pointing out the wall would prevent this. Hopefully, sooner or later, he would learn to slow down and listen, but that day was not today, and probably not anywhere in the near future.

There were three new cases asking for his and Neal's attention on his desk, but they were all consultation requests from other departments, nothing specifically for them. Word was getting around about their clearance rates, and agents were beginning to come up with somewhat thin excuses to call in Peter and his trained art-sniffing bloodhound. He dismissed the two VICAP requests out of hand; the last thing Neal needed right now was more blood to look at, and Peter hated investigating violent crimes. Generally the offenders were not terribly bright or entertaining.

The third one was from the Counterterrorism unit, and was marginally more interesting. They had some documents seized from a raid on a domestic terrorist cell that they wanted to authenticate or invalidate, and thought Neal's knowledge of seal forgery might be helpful. Might keep him busy; might track him off Kate a little. Bombings weren't especially something he wanted Neal anywhere near right now either, but it looked like most of the documents were financial.

"Boss," Jones said, leaning in his open doorway just before lunch. "Where's Caffrey?"

"Archives, why?" Peter asked.

"Front desk just called. You know any reason the Marshals would be on their way up?"

Peter swung around and called up Neal's map, tapping his fingers impatiently while it loaded. Neal's tracker showed him at Federal Plaza since this morning, and Peter knew exactly where Neal had been before that, at least since yesterday afternoon.

Possibly the Marshals did too. Possibly someone at the US Marshal's office had gotten suspicious about Neal Caffrey's presence in Peter Burke's house at all hours.

Shit.

"No, but let's not get caught with our asses in the breeze," he said, minimizing Neal's map. "I give you the signal, you slip out quietly and head for the fifteenth floor. I'll call you if there's any trouble, you can...I don't know, hide Neal in a box or something."

Jones grinned. "Yeah, sure thing."

"And send Diana in, would you?"

Diana arrived at his office pretty much right as a couple of Marshals got off the elevator. Peter wiped clammy palms on his thighs and stood up, walking out to the railing.

"Burke?" one of them called.

"Yeah," Peter said. "What's going on?"

"Got a minute?"

Peter gestured to the conference room. Diana stuck close by him as they walked in.

"Is this about Caffrey?" Peter asked, somewhat pleased at the even tone he was keeping.

"Not directly," the lead deputy said. "Daniel Braddock. I'm told you were supervising agent on the Shane Barlowe sting a couple of months back."

"It was a joint effort," Peter said, relief flooding him even as a new anxiety pushed its way to the front of his brain. "This is about Clive, isn't it."

"Clive?" Diana asked.

"Forgery case," Peter told her. "While you were in DC. It's how we got Barlowe. Our forger went into Witness Protection. He bolt?" he asked.

"Not yet," Braddock said.

"Yet?" Peter prompted.

"Chatter out of Malone Maximum Security says that Barlowe's been very active," Braddock said. "One of his lieutenants seems to have taken over about half his former operation, but they think Barlowe's still calling the shots."

"What the hell," Peter said. "I caught the guy for them, what more do they want, wrapping paper and a bow?"

Braddock cracked a grin. "Hey, I'm just the messenger. This lieutenant, who so far we only know as Shotgun -- "

"Nice name," Diana put in.

" -- he's been working an angle on the DEA. Poking around. One of their guys was offered a bribe. Looks like they're after the guy who took Barlowe down, and the snitch who kicked him in the nuts during the bust."

Peter glanced at Diana. Her face was perfectly composed; a little too perfectly. He grinned.

"That would be Neal," he told her.

"I would never have guessed," she solemnly assured him.

"We're talking with the DA now about excising the records, so your names aren't gonna go out if it does get leaked," Braddock continued. "We're also building a story for Benjamin Doss, the snitch -- turns out he's working in Singapore now."

"Singapore, nice," Peter said agreeably.

"You or Caffrey testify at his trial?"

Peter shook his head. "Clive did."

"Which is the other concern," Braddock sighed. "He's in deep cover protection, relocated, but guys like him pick things up. We think he might be getting ready to bolt. If he does -- "

"He might come back to New York. He knows where Neal lives," Peter said.

"So we want you and Caffrey to be aware that there's a dangerous drug kingpin looking for both of you, and a flight-risk teenager who might show up on your doorstep," Braddock said.

"Must be Tuesday," Peter replied. "Listen, guys, I appreciate this. Diana, I want you to get up to speed and keep an eye on this chatter out of Malone. Any questions you guys have, route them through her. You're lead on this if it goes anywhere. You good?" he asked Diana, who nodded. "Okay. I'm gonna go find Caffrey and tell him to keep an eye out for his young friend."

When he reached the archives, Peter found Neal sitting on the counter at the front desk, talking with the archive clerk and shuffling a deck of cards. He looked animated, but a little manic about it; Peter watched from the elevator vestibule as Neal did a card trick, delighting the (very pretty, young, female) clerk.

"Slacking on company time," Peter said, walking through the door. He tsked; Neal turned on the counter, pulling his legs up over the edge to drop down on Peter's side of it.

"He means me," Neal said to the clerk, who looked terrified.

"I mean him," Peter assured her. "Want to get lunch? Looks like you finished your research early."

Neal's face, out of view of the clerk, fell into hard, tired lines for a second before he smiled.

"Yeah, you were right," he said. "There's nothing there."

"Sorry," Peter said quietly.

"Catch you later, Nina!" Neal called, already walking towards the elevators. Peter followed, wanting to pull Neal into him and apologize again. When they got into the elevator, Neal leaned back against the wall and exhaled.

"I didn't get all the way through," he said. "I had a look at Argyle, some of Wright. Couple minutes of you and her."

"Nothing, huh?" Peter asked.

"I mean, we talked about what we'd do if we got caught, ways to shut down interrogation and stuff," Neal said. "I dunno, she was a good con but either I forgot how good or..." he shrugged. "She was a wall. So, maybe I never find out. Maybe Kate's the eternal mystery."

Peter brushed his fingers across the back of Neal's hand, a casual gesture, easy to mistake for an accident if anyone saw the elevator camera feed.

"You know what's really dumb?" Neal asked, laughing a little. "I got _bored_."

"Interrogations are boring. You were," Peter said.

"I was going for boring," Neal informed him.

"You were a towering success, in that case," Peter replied. Neal shot him a sly look. "Hey. You okay? Don't lie to me."

"I never lie to you," Neal insisted, but he didn't answer the question.

"Neal," Peter said.

"No. I'm not," Neal said, staring hard at the descending numbers above the elevator buttons. "But I will be. So, lunch?"

"Yep," Peter replied, as the elevator let them out on the ground floor. "And I have news of our forger Clive to share."

***

The next day they caught a case, which Peter thought was probably just as well. It would keep Neal busy, keep him from brooding --

And, as it turned out, totally destroy any chances Peter had of keeping Neal's ego in check. Not only was there a young crew of burgeoning cons copycatting him, there were classes being taught about him. Neal looked like he was inches from starting a scrapbook, and he couldn't stop smiling.

Which was, Peter had to admit, not something he minded. Plus, while he wasn't nuts about bringing Alexandra Hunter in on the case, it did get her a one-way ticket to Italy, and thus got her out of Neal's life.

It was interesting to meet Alex again; Peter couldn't help but file her in his head as a sort of surrogate Kate, someone Neal had once run with, someone he'd -- lied about, to himself anyway, someone who was still living and who could perhaps give Neal the catharsis he needed over the enduring mystery of who Kate had really been. Neal had the opportunity to see Alex, really see her, in a way he hadn't ever seen Kate. Peter privately hoped he'd taken it. He'd liked to have seen them together, seen how Neal acted around her, but he got a little taste, at least.

"Per Neal's suggestion," he said, handing over the plane ticket he'd had Jones arrange that morning, "We've booked you on a secure flight to Italy."

She studied the ticket while he talked -- she looked like she never missed a thing, never overlooked an angle. She looked young and sort of...hungry, the same way Neal had when Peter had been chasing him. Lost.

"Neal said you were the best," she said, which startled him -- and then she kissed him on the cheek, which was even more startling.

As soon as her back was turned, he checked to make sure she hadn't lifted his wallet.

They went out for beers that night, he and Neal and Diana, because the case had gone well, because El was out of town, because Diana wanted to pick their brains about the Barlowe case, and because frankly, Peter felt that they were possibly the greatest FBI team ever to flash a badge.

Well, after a couple of beers he did, anyway. Neal was nursing his second vodka and making comments about Peter's taste in beer, and Diana was drinking microbrews and ganging up with Neal on him, in between commentary on the Barlowe case. All was right with the world.

"I tell you what, though," Peter said, loosening his tie. "Neal didn't seem quite so paternal about those punk college kids as he was about Clive."

Neal shrugged. "Different situation. They were never in any real danger. Clive did it because he needed the money; they did it for kicks."

"You did it for kicks," Peter told him.

"My art is pure," Neal replied loftily.

"And they suckered in that kid Justin to do their forgeries for them," Diana added. "No sympathy from me. Plus Jones says they were _whiners_."

"At least when I allegedly faked something, I knew what I was getting into," Neal agreed. He looked like he was genuinely happy to have closed a good case, and Peter saw his private exultation over helping out Alex in the way he grinned whenever her name came up.

"Well, he's in the clear now," Peter said, ignoring the mild urge to lean over and bite Neal's lower lip. "You think he'll be on a gallery wall someday?"

Neal shook his head. "Not under his own name."

Diana looked at him, head cocked. "You think?"

"Think what?" Peter asked. Diana and Neal looked like they were in on a secret.

"Neal thinks Justin's a baby art forger," Diana said. "Right? I'm right."

"What, you think he really was in on it?" Peter asked.

"No! No," Neal protested, holding up his hands in innocence.

"Okay, so explain," Diana urged.

Neal looked like he was working out how to do that. Peter watched the wheels turn.

"Justin's not an artist," Neal said finally. "He's like me."

"Bullshit," Peter laughed. "I've seen your work. I've seen his work."

"Yeah, his work is proficient," Neal agreed. "But I looked through his sketches. I looked at the reproductions. They're copies -- even the drawing he was doing of the model the day we found him. They're picture-sketches. Run an image through enough Photoshop filters, you get the same effect."

"Isn't that a good thing, when you're faking it?" Diana said. Then she bit her lip. Peter chuckled.

"No sex jokes," Neal said, pointing at both of them. "That's kind of the point. Artists have opinions. Artists look at things -- objects, people, other artists' work -- and they have their own feelings about them. Picasso looked at a face and said, I want to draw this from every angle all at once."

Peter waited for him to continue. Neal ran his hands through his hair.

"When you're doing a reproduction -- "

"A forgery -- " Diana put in.

"Fine, whatever," Neal said impatiently. "When you're re-creating someone else's work you have to understand their feelings, their goals, but you can't have an opinion. If you do it infects the work, and it's not a perfect copy. Justin's not an artist, he's a very complicated Xerox machine. Same as me. _Technological virtuoso._ There's skill and work involved in that, but..." he shrugged. "We have no vision. I have nothing new to say to the world. I just like art. I like understanding it, and I allegedly like stealing it. I like making up ways to fool people. That kind of art's very different."

"Is that why you didn't become an artist?" Peter asked. "Or was it the money?"

Neal blew air through his lips, scornful. "I could have made money at it. He can, too. Plenty of actual artists with things to say end up doing commercial work, or go there by choice. It's not a bad gig. But someone who doesn't have an opinion or at least a good line of bullshit doesn't have a choice. There's more fun in forgery."

"Till you get caught," Diana pointed out. Neal shrugged again. "But you still have fun, huh? Here?"

Neal didn't look at her; he looked at Peter. "Yeah. That's true."

Diana slid out of the her chair, digging out her wallet. "Next round's on me."

"Nah, I'm good," Peter said.

"Neal?"

"Sure," Neal agreed, finishing his drink. "One more. Ketel One!" he called after her.

"Brand snob," Peter told him.

"I don't take criticism from people who drink Miller," Neal retorted.

"Which brings up a point," Peter said, leaning close. "You said you don't have anything to say."

"Yeah, so?"

"You have plenty of opinions. You're bursting with opinions."

Neal laughed. "Imagine a painting called _Boredom In A Surveillance Van_."

"Ever seen _Nighthawks_?"

"It's okay. I'm not an artist. I like what I do," Neal replied.

"What you did."

Neal lifted his eyes. "What I do," he repeated.

Peter gave him a smile. "Good."

"Can I come home with you tonight?" Neal asked, almost in Peter's ear.

"Not tonight," Peter said. "Monday, maybe."

"You could come home with me," Neal suggested. "It's a big empty house with Elizabeth gone."

Peter shook his head. "I don't enjoy the idea of Mozzie walking in on us."

"Yeah, I really gotta put a lock on that door," Neal agreed thoughtfully.

"That'll definitely keep him out," Peter drawled. He sat back, because if Neal kept looking at him like that he was going to be extremely indiscreet in a minute. "I have to say, though, I'd like to see what you'd put on a canvas out of your head."

"So you could learn all my secrets?" Neal asked, grinning.

"That too," Peter agreed, as Diana returned with the drinks. They toasted a good case, and to Elizabeth's health in absentia, and at the end of the night Peter went home to a very big house, with no Elizabeth and no Neal, and a bed that felt very, very cold.

Two weeks later he was sifting through casefiles on his desk, looking for the wrapup of the Navarro bust Mozzie had led them to, when a thin sheet of almost-translucent artist's vellum fell out from between two folders. Peter picked it up and carried it over to the window, perplexed. It was a drawing done with ink pen and art markers, a little cartoonish, as if its creator had been shy of committing anything more permanent or detailed.

It showed the surveillance van from the point of view of someone looking in through the rear doors. Most of the monitors were dark, and everything was washed in blue and black. Jones was on the left, in the foreground, head tipped up to the ceiling. Diana on the right, in the background, had her chin propped on her hand as she watched a monitor. Behind her, in shadow, Peter could see the outline of his own body leaning in the doorway from the cab -- the square shoulders of his suit and just a hint of light on his face, enough to show his features and the sweep of his hair over his forehead.

Central, between Diana and Jones, there was a figure seated with one leg crossed over the other, leaning back but looking down at the one true source of light in the entire composition: a glowing cellphone in one hand. It overlit his face, washing it out into just a hint of nose and eyes, but the shock of black hair and the slim tailored suit were unmistakable identifiers. A pair of handcuffs dangled from his other hand. Peter didn't think the moment had ever happened -- he was sure Neal hadn't had his phone out during the long watch over the rigged locker. Which meant that Neal had composed this. It had something to say.

In the corner, in Neal's neat draftsman's hand, was a legend: _The Surveillance Van_.

Peter grinned to himself.

"An original Caffrey," he said quietly, noting the clean, precise NC incorporated into a shadow thrown by Jones's arm. It was the same signature he'd seen on Neal's forged bonds. "I'll be damned."

Before he put it away in a folder for safekeeping, though, he studied it again. Neal, true, was the focus of the image, the center of attention, and how like him -- but he was also the only one in the picture with no face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
>  **[Nighthawks](http://www.artic.edu/aic/collections/artwork/111628?search_id=2)** by Edward Hopper


	10. Chapter 10

Neal had a desk at the FBI, like any real agent, with a computer and a phone and some file folders. His desk drawers probably had more art supplies in them than most agents had, but he didn't have a lockbox for a gun, so he called it even. Before Kate died, he'd never bothered to keep much at his desk because he wasn't going to be there long. Now, trying to figure out what to do with himself, he noticed things were...accumulating.

He'd have put up a few photo frames like everyone had on their desk, but his loved ones were either top-secret or dead, and his photo frames would have had art prints in them. Since he didn't actually want to give off the impression of an oddball eccentric, he kept it to objects -- a little reproduction bust of Aristotle, an inlaid box swiped from his suite at June's meant for storing cigars (repurposed as a catch-all for coins and other pocket detritus), a set of watchmaker's magnifiers that came in handy every time someone wanted a document examined.

And, taped to the corner of his monitor, his Save The Park armband.

It was a small irony in the grand scheme of Neal's life -- but Neal found it a significant one -- that Timmy Nolan Memorial Park was outside of his two-mile radius. He'd basically caused it to exist, but he couldn't go there for the ribbon-cutting or to watch it being leveled and seeded and the backstop installed. He didn't even especially like baseball.

He could have asked Peter to let him off the leash so he could visit it. Probably Peter wouldn't have even insisted on going with him. But Neal decided that wasn't...right, somehow. Instead, he hung the armband on his monitor and he thought, _In two years, I'll go and see it._

In two years, when (if; but he must think 'when') he got his parole, when the tracker came off. He hadn't spent two solid years anywhere since he was thirteen, unless you counted prison. By the time he got his parole it'd be three years total.

But where else was he going to go?

In two years he'd get the tracker off and he'd convince Peter and Elizabeth to take Satchmo and drive out to Timmy Nolan Memorial Park and spend an afternoon there to celebrate his freedom. Maybe they could have a picnic.

Sometimes he felt his dreams had become very small. Other times they felt so big, in their own way, that they stunned him.

But first he had to find out who'd killed Kate. Even if that fucked up his parole or his life here. He had to.

Neal knew that you don't get to have the really big dreams until the old dreams are put away.

***

Peter and Neal didn't talk much about Kate. Nobody did. Especially not that Neal was looking for whoever killed her, or that Peter had the music box.

El would be a fool not to know these things, and Elizabeth Burke was not a fool. Neal kept secrets from Peter -- Neal kept secrets from everyone, that was just who he was -- but Peter didn't like secrets, and the fact that he was keeping this one from Neal visibly bothered him. If it hadn't, Elizabeth would have worried; she still worried, but at least not quite so much, and for Peter rather than about him. The fact that Neal was looking for Kate's killer was equally obvious. Peter knew, and occasionally seemed angry that he couldn't do anything about it, either to help or hinder. Watching them circle each other was sometimes frustrating, even if she loved them.

It wasn't that she felt like an outsider, exactly. Neal's adoration of her was clear, and his desire for her no less intense than for Peter. She didn't want him with the same possessive urgency that Peter did, but then she wasn't Peter, and wouldn't have wanted the desperate submission Neal offered in return. Neal loved her, that was enough; Peter's devotion to her was ironclad, so that wasn't a concern.

Sometimes she went around in her head about it, but she always came back to the same conclusion. The boys were hers; it was just their world that wasn't.

She had two conversations about the secrets they were keeping. The one with Neal went like this:

She got home from Denver -- another business trip, another week without Peter and Neal -- wanting nothing more than a bath and a glass of wine. She texted Peter that she was home safe; he sent his love and "Neal says hi", which was as close to Neal sending his love as she was likely to get in print. She ran herself a bath, peeled her slightly sweat-sticky, reeking-of-airport clothes off, and settled in. She was just really getting into enjoying the hot water when she heard the door slam downstairs, and Neal's voice in the foyer.

"Elizabeth?"

"Up here," she called, praying that he'd gotten Peter's permission for this little jaunt, and that armed US Marshals weren't about to storm the house. Neal's footsteps on the stairs were echoed by Satchmo's scrambling claws, and then Neal appeared in the doorway, all tight shirt and snappy hat and wide smile.

"Hi," he said, as the dog snuck past him to nose at the bathtub. She pushed Satchmo away gently before he could try to drink from it. "Bad time?"

"Not anymore," she replied.

"Bad flight," he surmised.

"Just long. C'mere," she said, and Neal tossed his hat into the bedroom and shrugged out of his coat and settled on the bathroom floor next to the tub, elbows folded on the lip of it, chin on his arms. She flicked a little water at him and he wrinkled his nose. "To what do I owe the pleasure of Neal in the middle of the day? Did you set off your tracker?"

"I wanted to see you. I got Peter's ok, I think he wanted me to check up on you. The FBI thinks I'm picking up some files he left here, I can't stay long," Neal said. "We missed you."

She stroked his hair, matting it with damp a little. "Babe."

"Peter says he'd come if he could but he's bringing dinner to make up for it," Neal recited.

"He's bringing pizza, isn't he."

"Probably," Neal allowed. "He's also bringing me, if that helps."

"Always," she said. Neal still sometimes needed to be told that they wanted him. He watched her with his big, clear blue eyes. "Quiet morning?"

Neal looked indecisive.

"Not so quiet morning?"

"I -- " Neal frowned. "Mozzie and I went to see the wreckage. Don't tell Peter."

The wreckage -- oh God. The _wreckage_. Neal went to see the pieces of what was left after his girlfriend died in a fiery explosion.

"Okay," she said slowly, quietly. "Did it help?"

Neal closed his eyes. "I don't know yet. It hurt like hell."

"I'm sorry, baby." She sat with him in silence for a little while. "You weren't there legally, were you."

"No."

Elizabeth stroked his cheek. "I am sorry. I know that can't have been easy. But you can't tell me stuff I can't tell Peter, not big stuff like this that could get us all in trouble."

His eyes flew open. "Are you gonna -- "

"No," she said quickly. "No, our secret. But this is your free pass. Don't do it again, okay? Tell June or Mozzie, but -- with things like this, you can't tell me unless it's okay to tell Peter."

Neal nodded, staring at her like she was currently the only thing in his world.

"You know -- you know I wouldn't do that to you to hurt you, right?" he asked.

"I know," she said softly, and leaned forward to kiss him. "Now. Go back and be good and I'll see you tonight."

Neal grinned. "Okay, yes ma'am."

"And don't forget sausage on the pizza!" she called after him.

So that wasn't too awful, and she could keep one secret from Peter, one inadvertent confession of Neal's.

Her conversation with Peter was less traumatic, at least for her. He came home early one afternoon, without Neal, and said "Hey hon," in a totally normal tone of voice, and then wrapped her really tight in his arms and started shaking.

Once in a while Peter had bad days. Not just days where bad things happened; sometimes the bad things that had happened were pretty minor compared to other things he'd seen. Sometimes he just had a day where coping was a little harder for whatever reason. They'd developed a routine without ever really talking about it, because it embarrassed Peter, that he couldn't always be the big bad special agent.

She held on tight to him, waiting for him to be the first to let go. When he did, she pushed him towards the sofa and curled up with him there, head on his shoulder, burrowing into the arm he kept around her.

"Bad day?" she asked. He turned and rested his chin on top of her head.

"Yeah," he said.

"Wanna talk about it?"

Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't. "No," he said into her hair. "Tell me about your day."

So she picked up his hand and held it and talked about what she'd done, the parties she was planning, the little complications in her professional life. Peter eventually settled down, breathing a little slower, body relaxed a little more around hers. When she ran out of things to talk to him about, she just sat quietly, listening to him breathe.

"I've got Diana working a special project," he said finally, which she already knew; she also knew the special project was probably the music box, though she didn't think Peter knew she knew. "She had me take a look at something today."

"Something bad?" Elizabeth asked.

"No, not even that," Peter said, almost as if he were confused by it. "Not bad. Puzzling. It just...made me remember. Things. The explosion."

The explosion haunted Neal -- gave him nightmares, made it hard for him to sleep sometimes -- but it bothered Peter, too.

"I love you so much," Peter said. "If I lost you like that, I don't know -- "

"Shh, shh," she told him, rubbing his palm soothingly. "I'm right here. Stop thinking of imaginative ways for me to die, it's creepy."

Peter leaned back, gave her a startled look, and then laughed and pressed his forehead to her temple.

"You're right, you're always right," he said, kissing her.

"I think we need Stupid Movie Night," she told him. Stupid Movie Night always made Peter feel better. He kissed her again and got up to get beer and make popcorn, while she looked for the dumbest movie she could find on television.

Peter was keeping the music box from Neal, and that wasn't good; he knew it wasn't good, which somehow made it worse. And he was thinking a lot about the explosion, about what Neal had lost, because Peter tried to put himself into other peoples' shoes perhaps more than was healthy for him. Especially Neal's. Seeing through Neal Caffrey's eyes was almost second nature to him by now.

Peter owned Neal, in almost every sense of the word. She knew he and Neal both partitioned off work from playtime, but that Peter's concern for Neal's independence (what little of it he could have) crossed that partition. And there were moments when Peter belonged to her, when his willingness to do anything for her meant she had to be a little careful too.

Elizabeth didn't mind knowing these things; it made her feel powerful, and loved.

But it also made her worry. One day they were going to have to tell each other their secrets, and they both had so much to lose.

***

First, however, there were good nights.

Neal got one good night a week with Peter and Elizabeth. Not that all his other nights were awful or anything, most of them were pretty good too. He'd spent most of his life alone, so he didn't mind solitude, and anyway Mozzie was usually lurking around, making things interesting.

But working late was especially good.

"This is the dumbest movie of all our dumb movie nights," Peter said.

"Shh, he has the Death Tile," Elizabeth hissed.

"I blame you for this," Peter told Neal. "We're going to have to watch all three, now, aren't we?"

 _Six_ , Neal mouthed at him from the floor. Peter covered his face with one hand. Satchmo, ever inquisitive, wandered past and gave Neal a good sniffing before curling up on his cushion.

Elizabeth had told Neal he could sit on the couch with her, and said she liked being between them, but Neal liked the way they looked -- Peter on the end of the couch, Elizabeth curled up against him. So he sat on the floor and leaned against Peter's knee, and occasionally Elizabeth's hand drifted down to rub his hair. On the screen, _Tiles Of Fire III: Urban Reckoning_ was just getting good, but Neal was engrossed in his sketchbook, graphite (8B, almost as good as charcoal) skimming in aimless shapes: abstract designs turning into from-memory replicas of Leonardo, Sargent, Turner, Cezanne, Hockney. Figures from the murals at the Villa of the Mysteries at Pompeii. Medusine faces off Greek kraters. A study of a 6th century Bodhisattva from the Met.

It was peaceful. Bizarrely peaceful, the domesticity still alien to him. Yes, when the movie was over Peter was probably going to tie him up or Elizabeth would hold him down or something equally entertaining, and Neal was thrumming with anticipation. But right now Elizabeth was eating popcorn and Peter had a beer and Neal had a beer and a sketchbook and he was doing exactly what he wanted to do. And what he wanted to do wasn't even technically breaking any laws.

Well, the Hockney sketch might come close, it was a pretty damn good replica without an original reference, but Neal carefully inscribed his initials next to the date and that meant reproduction, not forgery.

"Neal," Peter said quietly.

"Hm?" Neal looked up at him. Peter held out his hand -- not an order, there was a question in his face -- and Neal nodded and passed the sketchbook up to him. Peter paged through it, flipping quickly, and Neal could see him slotting every single image into place. Hockney, Cezanne, Turner, Sargent, Leonardo.

"How did you learn this?" Peter asked, almost as if Neal weren't even there.

"Don't know," Neal said with a shrug. "You've got my file, it's all in there."

"The file doesn't explain everything," Peter said.

"I like art."

"You always drew reproductions?" Peter asked.

"You've got my file," Neal repeated. "You ever see a photograph of the mural I did in grade school?"

Peter chuckled, passing the book back. "Every Sister I talked to had a picture of it."

"Aw, I'm remembered," Neal said, grinning down into his book.

"Eleven years old. What a little asshole," Peter said.

"They had it coming!" Neal protested. That had been one of the best nights of his young life, breaking into the school and whitewashing one whole wall in the main hallway and painting an epic and scathingly satirical mural of everyone at St. Calvin's who'd ever crossed him or screwed him over. Painting Donny Bragg as a cherub with a tiny penis might have been overdoing it, in hindsight, but Neal knew he'd be expelled for that particular prank anyway. His first expulsion; at least he'd gone out with a bang.

"And yet you were the one who got expelled," Peter said, obviously thinking along the same lines.

"You got expelled when you were eleven?" Elizabeth asked. Neal tipped his head back and studied them.

"You never read my file?" he said to her.

"Well, I'm not employed by the FBI," she told him.

Peter just shrugged. "I tried not to bring my work home with me," he said.

"Yeah, that worked out well for you," Neal replied. Peter grunted and Neal looked down again, turning to a fresh page in the sketchbook, drawing idly. Circles and lines, squares, arcs, arches, sinuous shapeless un-angled things.

When he was sixteen he saw The Maltese Falcon for the first time and spent the whole film staring at the little shadowed triangles Bogart's cheekbones cast on his skin, which didn't make sense until he was seventeen and really enjoying being groped by Matty Keller in a hotel room in Monaco. Back then Keller was lean too, and he had the same kind of little shadowy triangles, and Neal didn't actually like a lot of what Keller did to people but he liked the little triangles and the way Matty kissed.

Matthew Keller was in prison; he was a murderer. Neal's pencil skritched softly across the page.

Alex was interesting to draw, she had a nose that fascinated him. Sometimes it looked totally ordinary and then she'd pull her hair back and it would be sharp and angular and perfect and he had to kiss her. Alex was in Italy with a Matisse, far away and safe from whoever was after her, whoever had killed Kate. She'd kissed him goodbye.

Kate was all pale skin and dark hair and black-rimmed eyes, and when she was angry with him her whole face went smooth and cold and gorgeous. When she was happiest her eyes were this bright, clear and somehow complicated blue; he used to want to find the perfect color of paint to match them, but he never quite got it right. Kate was a _challenge_. And Kate was dead.

Neal stopped for a minute, rubbed a line almost into obscurity while the familiar pain of her death passed through him, and then kept going.

Peter had an odd face. Handsome, undoubtedly, but there was something about his lips, some broad curve that made them interesting more than attractive. Eyes too old for his face -- the Bureau's fault, Neal guessed, thinking about the time Cruz had said _we all need a breather._ Memorable, though.

Elizabeth looked a little like Kate, in the right light, but only if you had no eye for detail, and Neal prided himself on his eye for detail. Higher cheekbones, a more prominent chin, a slightly rounder nose. Older than Kate, of course, but only in subtle ways. A nice face to draw, a much-loved face.

He didn't realize Elizabeth was bent over him, watching him work, until she rested her chin on the crown of his head. He stopped himself from tilting it up, an immediate instinct, and flicked the graphite stick around in his fingers.

"Critique?" he asked, looking down at the sketch. Disjointed, inelegant, but then art sometimes was that way. It was all sort of boxed together, all the eyes and noses and jawlines, mouths and hands, nothing looking like what it was.

"It looks like Picasso," she said. "Is it Picasso?"

"No," Neal said, shrugging a little. "It's not anything."

Well, it was, of course. It was half a dozen lovers: Matty, Alex, Kate, others too -- and Peter and Elizabeth. Kate was two sharp lines, Matty four, Alex a couple of angles, Peter and Elizabeth a twined set of curves in the middle of the whole thing. Neal turned it sideways, as if that was going to somehow make it coalesce.

"Kind of a mess," he added, but he dated and initialed it anyway, and then set the sketchbook on the coffee table as Elizabeth leaned back. "I'm getting another drink, you want anything?"

"Glass of water?" Elizabeth said. Peter shook his head. Before the kitchen door closed all the way he heard Peter say, _I don't get it, but it's interesting._ He stopped inside the door and strained his ears; Elizabeth answered, _Sweetie, you don't have to get it._

He took another beer out of the fridge -- Peter's drinking habits might destroy Neal's tastebuds, eventually -- and opened it, skimming the bottlecap into the trash. When he came back with the beer and Elizabeth's water, the sketchbook was back where he'd left it.

***

Peter surfaced briefly from sleep the next morning, sometime after midnight and a little before sunrise. When he opened his eyes, he saw Neal nearby, arms lifted over his head, hands twined in his hair, awake and breathing faster than he should be. Peter watched as Neal rolled off the bed; he reached out to grab him, missed, and groped sleepily at where he had been. Neal, turning, gave him a smile in the dim light.

"I'm fine," he said softly. "It's okay."

"Mf," Peter managed, and then cleared his throat. Behind him, Elizabeth pressed her face to his shoulderblades, still sleeping. "We need a bigger bed," he mumbled. "You need therapy."

Neal laughed. "I'm just restless. Go back to sleep."

Peter drifted down slowly, aware of a clatter as Neal gathered something off the dresser, a creak as he came back to bed. He slitted his eyes enough to see Neal sitting up with his sketchbook propped on his knees; well, that was fine. Peter rested his hand on Neal's drawn-up ankle, just below the tracker. Neal's muscle twitched, but he didn't say anything, and Peter fell asleep again to the soft sound of graphite on paper.

He dreamed he was chasing something (not unusual, it was a dream he had a lot) but there were moths, wherever he was, and they kept fluttering around his face, getting in his field of vision, brushing his skin in not entirely comfortable ways. He woke again to the sound of his own voice -- "Fucking moths!" -- and opened his eyes.

"You do talk in your sleep," Neal said, not looking up from his sketchbook. "It's cute. Bug hunting?"

Peter shifted, brushing at his face where he could still feel them, and when he brought his hand away it was covered in thin black streaks.

"Neal," he muttered. Neal looked down and a comical expression of dismay passed over his face.

"Aw, crap," he said, putting the graphite aside. "Sorry -- "

"What did you do?" Peter asked.

"Nothing! It's just pencil grit," Neal told him, licking his thumb and rubbing it on Peter's cheek. Peter jerked back.

"What, am I five?" he asked, swiping at the dampness.

"Last night your dick was _inside me_ , you're really going to complain about some saliva?" Neal asked, sounding far too reasonable for -- oh God, the clock said six-thirty.

"No dirty talk, it's too early," Elizabeth groaned, propping herself up on Peter's shoulder like he was a pillow. "Neal, the sheets."

Peter looked down. The sheets around Neal were smeared with the same thin streaks, dotted here and there with crumbs of graphite.

"It'll wash out!" Neal protested, but Peter hooked him around the waist and grabbed for the sketchbook, hauling Neal down into the mess he'd made. Elizabeth pulled the book out of his hand while Peter wrestled Neal flat on his back.

"I'm making you replace these," he said, holding him down by his wrists.

"Oh please, make me," Neal drawled, but he tried to make a grab to get the book back. Peter blocked him.

"No art in bed," Peter told him, scowling. "New rule."

"Sweetie," El said.

"No, the next thing you know he'll be putting up an easel -- "

"Peter." El's voice was calm and quiet but nonetheless commanding. Peter let go of Neal's wrists and glanced over his shoulder. She was sitting up, book open. He leaned back and looked over the other side of the book, upside-down. Neal stayed where he was, but he watched them both.

The open page was a sketch of Jones in motion, that loose-limbed track runner thing he did when he was chasing a perp. Elizabeth flicked back a page and there was June, laughing -- and another page back was a study of the lower half of a man's face. Peter pressed a fingertip to his lips -- those were his lips, that was his chin. The single eye and nose nearby were Elizabeth's, absolutely unmistakable.

"It's still basically reproduction," Neal said, as El carefully traced around a line indicating Peter's throat. Back another page was Hughes, in the style of Sargent, all quick strokes and hooded eyes, and below him was a cartoonish doodle of Satchmo with a giant bone in his mouth. Mozzie's glasses and shiny bald head looked up from the far corner.

"They're lovely, Neal," Elizabeth said, and Peter saw the quick flicker of pleasure in Neal's face. "You should draw yourself."

Neal laughed. "I see myself in the mirror every day. Boring."

"You use that word a lot," Peter told him.

"There's a lot of boring things in the world." Neal propped himself on an elbow. "They don't mean anything. Just had a bad dream, wanted to draw."

Elizabeth shot Neal a sardonic look. Peter took the book out of her hands and passed it back to him. Neal closed it and set it aside; there was a long smear of graphite on his own cheek, now that his face was fully visible.

"Wash your face," Peter told him. Neal nodded and slid out of bed, getting more graphite on his shoulders and back. Peter rolled over and nudged Elizabeth, who burrowed down against him, kissing his jaw.

"You have stripes," she told him, but at least she didn't lick her thumb and try to rub them off.

"Someone got graphite all over me," he replied. Elizabeth laughed into his neck.

"He's never going to be ordinary, is he?" she asked. "Those sketches were amazing, though."

Peter, who had spent three years analyzing everything Neal Caffrey did or made or stole or sold, stared at the ceiling and thought about it.

"No Kate," he said.

"Can you blame him?"

"Mm. Maybe not."

Elizabeth rested a hand on his stomach. "I can hear your gears turning."

"Neal has a nightmare, he wakes up -- I wake up, he tells me to go back to sleep, and then he sits in the dark and draws," Peter mused, talking it out because he wasn't sure where it was going yet. "What does he draw..."

"Friends, companions, lovers?"

"Things that are comforting," Peter surmised. "Familiar things. Ah. No wonder."

"Again, I ask, can you blame him?" Elizabeth said. "Mr. Art Critic."

"It's still a chase," Peter said. "He's still leaving me puzzles. Clever boy Caffrey. He just doesn't mean to leave them anymore."

"What can you do?"

"Nothing," Peter said, and it cut surprisingly deep to say it. "Nothing I can do. Just...wait for the crash."

There was a puff of humid warm air from the hallway and Neal walked back into the room, damp, wearing a pair of Peter's pajama pants he'd apparently found in the bathroom. His hair was slicked back, and the graphite marks were gone.

"He looks good in your clothes," Elizabeth whispered, while Neal gathered the sketchbook and graphite up and set them by the stairs where he'd remember to take them with him.

"Better than he'd look in yours," Peter muttered back. She laughed and pushed him out of the bed. Peter left the bedroom, catching Neal around the waist again and pressing a kiss to the side of his throat as he passed. Neal gave him an almost wild, wide-eyed look, but sooner or later he was going to have to get used to it, so Peter ignored it and went to take his shower.

***

By all rights, Peter shouldn't like Sara Ellis. He hadn't, when they'd first met; she'd been young and arrogant, nosing into his pursuit of Neal and then insisting when he caught him that Neal be tried for the theft of the Raphael, even though Peter knew it wouldn't stick. Five years on she was still after Neal for the goddamn Raphael, even though it could put Neal back in prison and fuck up a pretty good thing. 

But even five years ago she'd been driven and meticulous in her research, and she hadn't been shy about sharing her intel, and Peter respected that. Now she was less bluster and more confidence, and seemed to understand the way the game was played. Peter found that he did like her. He liked watching Neal deal with her. Neal danced with his marks and it was an interesting dance to watch, especially when the mark knew she was being conned. He didn't know why Neal was dancing with Sara -- Neal wasn't petty enough to be mocking her, and he wasn't stupid enough to think she'd give up the chase -- but it was fun to see.

The week that Sara came back into their lives, El was gone -- again -- and that meant dinner at Neal's, because Peter stopping by after work was just two guys hanging out, whereas Peter and Elizabeth in Neal's little suite was the kind of thing that would make people talk. It also meant cheese sandwiches and wine, because Neal didn't so much cook and Peter wasn't especially in the mood to. Peter had to give him this, though, he knew how to pair wine with cheese sandwiches.

"So," he said, sitting back in the chair, feeling his spine pop in about four places. "What _do_ you want from Sara Ellis?"

"A guy can't make friends?" Neal asked, around a paintbrush clenched in his teeth. When they came in he'd said something along the lines of _Oooh, afternoon light!_ and Peter had watched in amazement as Neal stripped off his shirt, changed into a pair of ragged cheap pajama pants, and set up a gesso'd board on the easel. On reflection, the pajamas were Peter's, which raised the question of why Neal was now stealing his clothing, a question for another time perhaps.

"You told me to start a conversation," Neal reminded him, using the blunt wooden tip of the paintbrush to mix paint in a little tray.

"What you're doing with Sara, that's not a conversation," Peter pointed out. Neal swept another streak of orange-red tempera across the board.

"You know me," Neal said absently. "I like to be liked."

"Mmhm. So do you fall for everyone who chases you?" Peter inquired. Neal shot him a look over his shoulder.

"Fall for Sara Ellis? She almost shot me," he said.

"Well, you were in her bedroom with a loaded gun," Peter pointed out. "She had reasonable cause."

"I'm not hot for Sara," Neal said.

Peter tilted his head. "Whatcha painting, Neal?"

"Nothin'," Neal replied, in the exact same tone of voice.

"Neal..."

Neal shrugged, edging yellow into the red. "You look at a person, you see a person. I look at a person, I see light and shadow and color."

"And?"

Neal tossed the brush bristles-up in a cup. "And her hair is very perplexing."

Peter laughed.

"It's not funny. I'm not falling for her. Your lips are perplexing too," Neal retorted.

"Not helping your case!" Peter was still laughing.

"You should hear what I have to say about Hughes," Neal told him. "Not to mention Bugsy."

"The pug?" Peter asked.

"Mmhm. Pugs have very interesting ears," Neal said. "You could do a whole study on liquid lines using a pug as a model."

Peter stood up and joined him at the canvas, hands on hips. "So this is, what, an abstraction?"

"Color study," Neal replied. "She's very...coiffed."

Peter, mindful of the windows they weren't quite visible through and of the easy access June and Mozzie had to this room, rested a hand on Neal's bare arm, thumb rubbing the scar there, and kissed his shoulder briefly before going back to the table. After a while, with Neal still playing with color at the easel, he spoke again.

"You know, El and I..." he pondered how to say it. "As...bizarrely pleasant as it is to have you around -- "

"Thanks," Neal drawled. "I get it -- it's not like I think you guys never have sex when I'm not there. I mean, you did for ten years, so obviously."

Sometimes Peter was very grateful for Neal's directness. "Look, I'm just saying, I know I say a lot of bullshit in bed. But if you were interested in someone, that'd be okay. It'd be good, in some ways."

"Seriously, I'm not chasing Sara Ellis," Neal answered.

"I'd just like to know," Peter continued doggedly. "As a friend, that's all. People tell each other crap like that."

"You are really bad at this whole emotional discussion thing," Neal announced.

"Usually Elizabeth handles it."

"For good reason, I see." Neal carried his brushes to the sink and began washing them. "Hey, if I somehow end up meeting someone who isn't trying to get me imprisoned, kill me, or steal my game, I'll let you know."

Peter joined him at the sink, leaning against the counter. "You remember when I caught you?"

"Hm," Neal grunted.

"One of the first things you did was ask me how the wife was. After we had our little tête-à-tête about guns."

"Yeah, I don't really..." Neal pressed his lips together. "No, see, I don't actually remember a lot of that. I was kind of scared shitless at the time."

"You put on a good act."

Neal glanced up, grinned, looked back down as the water flowed over the brushes and his fingers, diluting the tempera and washing it away. "I really liked you, you know, when you were this guy playing tag with us. You were interesting. A pain in the ass, but interesting. Then all of a sudden, holy shit, Peter Burke's in my home with a gun."

"Your home was an empty squat in Jersey," Peter said.

"It was still my home. And there you were, like, ten feet tall, slapping zipties on my wrists. Don't get me wrong," Neal added. "It was impressive, but all I really remember is your suit."

"You knew you were going away for it, that time."

"Yeah. The mind panics, it picks things out. Your suit. I must have fallen asleep the first month I was in prison with that suit in front of my eyes. So, maybe I asked about Elizabeth, I don't know. Was I a dick?"

"You were a smartass," Peter said. "That's about it."

"Good to know." Neal pinched the brushes between thumb and forefinger, squeezing the excess water out before tipping them bristles-up into the drying rack next to the sink. "I was twenty-five, Peter."

"By which time you'd stolen millions," Peter replied. "Sorry, youth isn't a plea with me."

"No, that's not..." Neal turned to him. "It's not like I'm saying I didn't know what I...allegedly did. I'm just saying. I was twenty-five and terrified."

"You scared now?" Peter asked.

Neal's lips curved. "No," he admitted.

"So what's the problem?" Peter asked, leaning close.

"Aside from turning thirty in a couple of months?" Neal asked lightly. "Not a damn thing. Did I really ask you about Elizabeth?"

"Sooo, how's the wife?" Peter said, in a decent imitation of Neal, five years back. Neal cracked up laughing.

"Jesus, good for me!" he crowed. "What did you say?"

"I said I was taking her out to celebrate."

That made Neal laugh harder, throwing himself down on the couch, legs up on the cushions, head against one of the arms. "And did you?"

"No," Peter admitted, sitting down on the other arm of the couch, facing Neal, his feet on either side of Neal's long legs. "I went home, I told her we got you, and then I slept for fifteen hours straight."

"I shoulda sent you a bottle of champagne," Neal mused. "And now here we are."

Peter nodded. They were there. Undeniable fact.

"You ever think maybe we're messed up?" Neal asked. Peter considered it.

"Nope," he said. He really hadn't, not since that first night El had said Neal should stay with them, and he'd finally given in. He'd meant it; he was never going to say no.

"Huh." Neal sat up a little. "Well, that's good, I guess."

"I told you. Sometimes the people you love change. Sometime who you love changes, too."

Neal smiled, a mixture of adoration and self-satisfaction. Peter wondered what the hell he'd done to be given this; something he didn't even know he wanted until Neal showed up and offered it to him.

"Can I ask you something?" Peter said. Neal nodded, scooting forward. "Why don't you just give her the damn Raphael and get her off your ass? Don't tell me you couldn't slip it to her without getting caught."

Neal considered it. Peter wondered if Neal would do it if _ordered_.

"If someone had stolen a Raphael and was asked about giving it back," he said, and Peter grinned, "there might be a lot of reasons. Maybe it's worth millions, and it's an investment. Maybe he fenced it. Maybe he liked it, and wanted it for himself, and thought the owner was kind of an asshole. Maybe he's just stubborn. Most of all, though, if he did give it back, every other recovery agent in the country would be on him like piranhas."

"Ah. Yeah," Peter agreed. "That last one's a problem."

"Not insurmountable," Neal remarked, leaning back, languid and calm. "There are ways." He stretched. "This theoretical thief, he could put it back where he found it. That'd be a good game. Or he could tip off the FBI. I hear they got some really clever guys there. Maybe leave a treasure map."

Neal rubbed his right foot against his tracker, eyes on the ceiling, thinking. He was turned on by this, Peter realized -- mentally turned on, sure, but he got off in a very literal way on these cons. Peter slid off the arm of the couch; Neal looked up sharply, but Peter just spread one hand, a _stay down_ gesture, and Neal tipped his head back again when Peter settled on the floor at his hip, left arm slung across his thighs, facing him.

"A treasure map?" Peter prompted.

"Not literally," Neal said. He was flushed, tongue darting out to lick his lips. "Say one of those smart guys at the FBI finds a clue at some crime scene. If he's smart enough -- "

Peter grinned. "You mean a puzzle."

Neal huffed. "Is that what you called them? I called them treasure maps."

"Treasure maps promise some kind of prize at the end," Peter pointed out, hand drifting up Neal's thigh.

"Do they," Neal murmured, the message perfectly clear: _What do you think I am?_

"So this thief leaves a puzzle, a treasure map," Peter continued. He ran his thumb over Neal's cock, trapped in the pajamas -- his pajamas -- and Neal shivered. "Lets the FBI find the painting. Or...?"

"Someone finds the painting and turns it in," Neal writhed a little. "Peter -- "

"What? Having trouble concentrating?" Peter asked. Neal drew in a deep breath, visibly calming himself while Peter stroked slowly, all the way down and back up again. "What else?"

"What -- " Neal licked his lips again. "What else. Uh. Hm," he added, arching a little. Peter stopped moving, and Neal made that wonderful little whine. "What else. He could fence it and turn in the buyer. Tip off a couple of co -- oh -- cops that they should be in a certain place at a certain time. Sell it, take the cash, send the buyer right into an ambush."

"Profitable," Peter remarked.

"Fun," Neal said, sucking in a breath as Peter pressed gently with his thumb. "Especially if you get a crooked buyer, someone you already want to put away."

"Dangerous?" Peter asked.

"Mmhm," Neal's assent was more of a moan.

"How else?" Peter prompted.

"You bastard," Neal breathed.

"Come on, Neal, think it out," Peter told him. "Just one more."

Neal twisted up into Peter's grip and Peter stilled again until Neal collapsed back against the cushions, getting himself under control.

"There's a -- bad way," he said, closing his eyes. "There's ways I wouldn't."

"If you were the thief."

"Yeah, if I was -- you could break in," Neal said, fingers curling against the fabric of the sofa, the one truly visible point of stress. "Into Sara's house."

Peter felt something twist inside him.

"Leave the painting and a note," Neal continued, and he seemed to be breathing a little easier than he had. "The note says -- " he exhaled. "Peter, don't make me."

"Tell me," Peter said.

"It says, it says, if you tell them -- " Neal whined again. "If you tell them who brought this to you, remember that I know -- I know how to get into your home," he finished. "And you wrap a bullet in it."

A chill ran over Peter's skin. Neal seemed to be calmer, but that wasn't quite it -- the idea was repulsive to him, especially since it had come from his own brilliant mind. It was settling him, but not in a good way.

"But you wouldn't do that," he reminded Neal, who nodded. "Because you're good. You're trying to be good."

Neal arched so hard the muscles in his throat corded, and Peter flattened his hand, pressing him down. The breath went out of Neal in a rush and he pushed himself up, looking confused.

"Stay there," Peter told him, and stood up. Neal watched, strung taut and breathing fast, as Peter stepped into his shoes and pulled his jacket on.

"Peter?" he asked.

"Stay," Peter told him, and tossed Neal's phone onto his chest. "I'm going home. I'll tell you when. You can do whatever you want until then, except..."

"Oh my _God_ you _son of a bitch_ ," Neal moaned, one hand clutching the phone.

"Remember this," Peter told him, checking for his wallet and badge. "So close to what you want and someone told you no. This is how Sara feels."

"This is not how Sara feels," Neal assured him. "If she did she'd have shot me by now."

"Hm." Peter bent and kissed his forehead. "It's still good for someone to tell you no. Call you in a few."

He waited until he was on the road, pulled up at a stoplight, and then scrolled through his contacts for Neal. There was no point in making him suffer needlessly; that wasn't the goal of the exercise.

"Peter," Neal answered.

"Now," Peter said, and Neal gasped ragged, breathed roughly, came with a high wordless cry of satisfaction.

Peter smiled. And, admittedly, adjusted his pants slightly. "Remember," he said, as Neal audibly caught his breath, "I could order you to give the Raphael back. I won't. But I could."

"What Raphael?" Neal managed, and Peter laughed.

"Would you, if I did?" Peter asked. Neal was silent for a while.

"If I had it, and could get to it, and wouldn't go back to prison for it," Neal said finally. "Yeah. I probably would." Another pause. "Why don't you?"

"Because there's more to this than a painting," Peter said. "And maybe eventually you'll return it on your own."

Neal laughed -- a quiet, contented laugh. "Goodnight, Peter."

"Night, Neal."

***

Neal was still endorphin-high off the orgasm when Mozzie showed up, which was a little awkward. At least he'd managed a shower and to put some clothes back on before he walked out of the bathroom and found Mozzie hunched over the painting on the easel, studying it with his keen miss-nothing eyes.

"Hey, Moz," Neal called from the bathroom doorway.

"I saw the Suit leave," Moz said, still regarding the painting.

"What, I'm under surveillance now?" Neal asked, without any real rancor in his tone. He felt loose, shoulders relaxed, skin sensitive to little currents in the air.

"You are when I see the Suit's car parked out front," Mozzie answered. He leaned back from the painting. "It's very -- it's sort of Munch meets Mucha. See, when you actually take your time, you have good control."

"I always have good control," Neal said, sprawling bonelessly in a chair. Mozzie looked up at him.

"I see you had fun with the Suit," he said, raising an eyebrow.

"You don't want details," Neal reminded him. "And yeah. I did."

"So what is it?" Mozzie asked, gesturing at the painting.

"Color study. Messing around, I guess," Neal replied. It occurred to him that he'd done a lot of messing around lately. "It's nothing."

"So much talent going so terribly to waste for the feds," Moz mused, sitting down across from him. Neal gave him a blissed-out grin. "How's it going with Sara?"

"Not this well," Neal told him. "I did treat her to a lovely rooftop dinner."

"And?"

"And she told me I smiled for a living," Neal replied.

"No guns this time."

"Baby steps," Neal agreed.

Mozzie fixed him with a look. "What does the Suit say about you wooing the Shroud?"

Neal raised an eyebrow. "The Shroud?"

"Dead Suit," Mozzie said.

"That's a little sick, Moz."

Mozzie pointed at him. "You're evading."

"Peter's fine with it," Neal said firmly. "He thinks it might be good for me."

"This whole thing is so -- "

"Anais Nin, I know," Neal groaned. "Look, if I have to woo to get the package, I will. That's all it is."

Mozzie made a skeptical noise but he didn't push, just changed the subject to Neal's wine collection and what he ought to buy next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
>  **[Villa of the Mysteries](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Villa_of_the_Mysteries)** at Pompeii  
>  Example of a **[Gorgon's-head bowl](http://www.britishmuseum.org/explore/highlights/highlight_objects/gr/b/bowl_with_a_gorgons_head.aspx)**  
>  **[Bodhisattva](http://www.metmuseum.org/Works_of_Art/collection_database/asian_art/bodhisattva_avalokiteshvara_guanyin//objectview.aspx?OID=60025340&collID=6&dd1=6)** , 6th century, at the Met


	11. Chapter 11

The day they caught their perp and Sara went home from witness protection, Neal in tow and dutifully carrying her file boxes, they both almost died. The real hit man Neal had been impersonating had come back, and if Sara hadn't had a gun...

Sometimes Neal thought he should start carrying. It wasn't technically illegal; he'd studied federal law on it, and his brand of white-collar fraud was exempt from the ban on ex-felons carrying guns. Even if they denied him because he was still serving time, he was pretty sure he could ask Peter for a concealed-weapons holster and Peter would find him one. On the other hand, after about ten seconds of thinking about guns Neal usually came to his senses with the vague taste of revulsion in his mouth and decided to let everyone else carry a gun instead.

But he was grateful to Sara for defending them. That was legitimate. If his other motives were less than pure, well, she didn't need to know that.

When they got back to Federal Plaza, Neal told Peter he'd be up in half an hour, and strolled around the corner to a florist's. They didn't have tiger lilies, like he wanted, but they did have calla lilies in beautiful bright colors: red and gold and yellow, like Sara's hair. He bought enough to be just shy of indecent, wrote _Welcome back to the land of the living_ on the card, and then after a hesitation added, _Thanks for keeping me there too._ That was nice -- a little romantic and yet completely innocent. He signed it, _NC_ , and tucked it into the bouquet.

"Here's the address -- by six today," Neal told the attendant, and added a generous tip to the total.

Sara called him at half past six. He was sitting on the terrace with June, enjoying the spring evening.

"Sara," he said, sitting back and dropping June a wink. "Isn't this a surprise."

"I got your flowers," she said, but she sounded annoyed. "Cute, Neal."

"Hey, I like to say thank you to people who save me from being shot in the head," Neal replied, refusing to tense up over whatever her deal was. "You like lilies?"

"Yes, they're very beautiful," she answered, a trifle impatient.

"You're not allergic or anything?"

"No."

"Because you sound like you're angry," Neal told her, keeping his tone light. June, eavesdropping shamelessly, gave him a thumbs-up.

"What's your game, Neal? We closed the case. I'm out of your life, for now. I don't get your angle," she said.

"No angle," Neal told her. "I wanted to say thank you. I promise they're not bugged," he added.

"I know, I swept them," she said. Which was very sexy.

"You gotta let people like you sometimes," Neal told her.

"Plenty of people like me. When con men like me, that's when I worry," she said.

"Reformed and rehabilitated," he told her.

"Where's the Raphael?"

"I wish I could tell you," he said, half meaning it. She sighed.

"They're beautiful, Neal," she said, a little more sincere now. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Now, no more surprise presents unless it's the Raphael."

"I'll keep an eye out for it," he said, and she hung up. June looked at him, amused. He grinned. "Flowers never fail to get a reaction."

"Perhaps not always the one you hoped," June replied.

"In this case, I was taking anything I could get." Neal set the phone on the table. "Byron ever send you flowers?"

June smiled nostalgically. "One of Byron's...associates...went out every week and bought me roses from him while he was in prison. After he got out, it was tulips. And of course, corsages for me and boutonnieres for him when we were courting. He liked a nice orchid blossom on his chest. So did I," she added. "Did I ever tell you about the carnation con he ran?"

Neal leaned his chin on his hands. "No."

"Well, it was my idea. He was counterfeiting small bills -- it was so much easier, back then -- out of a bar he used to own. The police couldn't get a warrant, but they were definitely watching the bar. Anyone who left with a briefcase or a large bag got searched..." June sighed. "That was much easier back then too. But the police weren't watching the flower shop next door. So I said to Byron, sweetheart, why don't you send me some flowers?"

Neal grinned. "June, what did you do?"

"Almost nothing! Byron's the one who knocked a hole in the wall between the shop and the bar and passed the bills through. The florist was happy enough to sell so many flowers. They stuffed half the vases in the shop with the money, filled them up with carnations, and delivered a whole truckload to the little cafe where I was waitressing."

"You unpacked the vases, laundered the money through the cafe -- "

"And the bookstore across the street," June said. "And every table in the cafe had a lovely spray of carnations that day. It brightened up the place considerably."

"That is sneaky," Neal said.

"Why, thank you," June replied, beaming.

"Was Byron doing the forging himself?"

"Oh, no. He had an art student who did all that for him. Very much like yourself, I imagine. Bright young man. I think we have one of his paintings hanging in the east guestroom." June pushed back from the table a little and stood up. "But that's enough corrupting of youth for one night," she said, patting him on the shoulder. "Good luck with your flower girl."

"Thanks," Neal said, turning in his seat. "June -- "

"Yes, dear?"

"Would you like a painting? From me?" he asked. June frowned. Just a small frown, though, as if she were considering...not the question, but himself.

"Of course," she said. "I'd love one, Neal."

"I'll paint you something," he promised.

***

Neal Caffrey  
American, 1980 -  
 _The Carnation Girl_  
Tempera on wood panel, 2010  
Temporary Loan

Caffrey's particular, almost eccentric blend of realism and impressionism is seen clearly in this early work. The dark tones of the café interior are powerfully evocative of a sepia photograph, and the detail on the wall paneling, the café patrons, and the central figure of the waitress is careful and controlled. It could be considered nostalgic, a Hopper-esque snapshot of an older era, if not for the striking contrast with the vivid carnations adorning every table in the image.

Recalling Monet's style and subject matter, the carnations are painted almost carelessly, seeming to pop out of the picture in vibrant red shades. The juxtaposition is rendered less startling by the use of warm tones for both the cafe setting and the flowers, uniting the image with the deliberate use of color for which Caffrey is well known.

***

After Mozzie broke into Sara's apartment to steal the package from the FAA with Kate's tape in it, it took less than twenty-four hours for Sara to notice she'd been robbed, gather up her equipment, and drop down on Neal like an incredibly fashionable ton of bricks.

Neal could understand her anger. She'd been telling both him and herself that he was trying to play her and she was too smart to fall for it, but clearly on some level the flowers had gotten to her. She was angry she'd been robbed, but she was more angry that she'd been right about Neal just when she was starting to think she'd been wrong about him.

There was a sort of brilliant challenge in trying to salvage the situation. Just how fast could fast-talker Caffrey talk? He felt as if he would have won some kind of prize if he'd managed to take her from "Please submit to the voice-stress analysis lie detection test" to "Yes, I will have dinner with you tonight" but Sara was single-minded.

He wondered if she ever dreamed about the Raphael. He had, when he'd been setting up the theft.

He'd never met a woman who served a warrant on his home before, either (even Peter had never tossed his place before arresting the hell out of him). If this kept up, maybe he could get her to put some handcuffs on him. The idea was oddly alluring.

It was a detective with the NYPD who put the cuffs on when they found the package, which was much less sexy. Neal tried to stay calm, because this was a minor setback -- well, okay, maybe more than minor. This was a going-back-to-prison-sized setback. Still, Neal and June both had contingency plans in place for things like this, and while they were searching his place the maid downstairs was calling June, June's lawyer, and the FBI. Peter would get him out of this, because Peter needed him for the takedown they were planning for that evening.

Neal was already being put into a transport car when Sara appeared behind the detectives. "Guys?" she said, and they crowded around her, out of earshot. After a minute, looking disgruntled, they stayed where they were while she walked up to the car and leaned on the door.

"Burke sprang you," she told him. "Stand up."

Neal scrambled to his feet and presented his wrists. The cuffs snicked open. He turned around, rubbing where they'd already left faint marks.

"I only let people I really like put cuffs on me," he said, smiling, careful not to make it too smug.

"Shut up and listen to me," she said. "Peter explained to me what's going on. I'm dropping the charges. I swear to God if you break into my house again -- "

"I didn't break into your house," he interrupted. "Look, I'll send you the tracking data."

"You're lying," Sara snapped.

"I didn't know anyone was going to break in," Neal said. One of the first rules of getting out of crap like this was keeping people talking. "I swear I didn't. I didn't do it, I didn't know it was going to happen."

"How am I supposed to believe a word you say?" she asked.

"Because I'm better than that. If I broke in, if I stole that package, you wouldn't know I'd done it," he said. It was the truth.

"That's not at all creepy and violating," Sara told him. He opened his mouth and she shut him up with a look. "You get a walk this time because Burke needs you. If this package goes missing again, or someone else breaks into my home, it's game over, Neal. And I won't come after you. I'll come after Burke."

The threat worked, but he was damned if he'd let her see it. "Good luck with that. Peter's cleaner than you are."

"I'm not screwing around."

"Neither am I."

She snicked the cuffs shut on nothing, tapping one against her lips.

"What's in this package, Neal?" she asked. "What's got you stealing from me and the FAA?"

Neal kept his silence. He saw her fingers tighten fractionally on the evidence bag that held the package.

"Go, save this kid," she said finally, gesturing with the handcuffs. Neal saw, beyond her, Peter standing on the steps of June's house. "Get the hell out of my sight."

He moved past her, but stopped at her shoulder and dropped his head slightly, whispering in her ear. "Thank you, Sara."

"I think we have different definitions of that phrase," she said.

"You'd be surprised," he told her, and went to see how badly Peter was going to kick his ass for this.

"Sit," Peter said, when Neal reached the steps. Neal sat obediently on the retaining wall. Peter sat across from him, eyes beyond him, watching Sara and the NYPD detectives leave. When they were gone, Peter turned back to him.

"Let me see your wrists," he said. Neal, perplexed, held out his hands, palms up, shooting his sleeves so his wrists were visible. The marks from the handcuffs were already fading.

"We're gonna take this," Peter said, examining them, "and file it under stupid bullshit you pulled in the name of Kate, and not talk about it."

"Okay," Neal said warily.

"I want you on your game for tonight. This isn't pause; this is rewind and erase. It never happened," Peter continued. He cupped Neal's left hand in his, turning it over. "That said, I have some orders for you. Stay away from Sara. You or Mozzie or anyone else you know goes near her again, I don't care what op we're running, I'll let them lock you up." He looked up, still holding onto Neal's wrist. "I am the only one who puts cuffs on you. Your part of that deal is keeping out of trouble so no one else has to. You get me?"

Neal nodded. "Got it," he said.

"Okay. Let's head back," Peter said, and the storm clouds drifted out of his eyes, and by the time they got to Federal Plaza it was done -- done and forgotten. Peter even wished him good luck on the op, with a genuine smile.

So Neal took a hundred thousand dollars, cashed it in for chips, put his game face on, and played some high-stakes poker.

He'd always wanted to. In the various casino towns he'd been in, he'd been too broke to play with the whales or too deep in some other con to want to draw attention to himself, but he'd seen plenty of big games. He'd been a croupier for one in Vegas once, laundering forged chips into the game while his accomplice served drinks in the background. Now, playing with the Bureau's money, it was every bit as exciting as he'd thought it would be. Better, even.

There was nothing like the con game. Nothing. You might spend months working up a plan, you might spend days working your ass off to make it function, but in the moment when you put it into action it was all pleasure and greed and pride and instant gratification, and you got to take a couple of hits of all that before you ran. When Donovan turned over his cards in the final round, the roaring started in Neal's ears; when he turned over his own cards it was so loud he couldn't hear anything else.

He got through the end of the game, the cash-out, and the congratulations all on pure instinct. He didn't remember having them wire the money to Nick Halden's one active bank account, but he must have done it; they gave him a receipt. He knew he could taste champagne in his mouth as he left the club, walked around the corner, and leaned against the wall to put his head between his knees.

Jones got to him first. "Caffrey? Hey, you okay?"

"Fine," Neal said, not lifting his head, waving a hand vaguely, trying to get himself steady.

"What happened?" Diana's voice; Neal could see her shoes.

"He won," Peter said, and a warm hand rested on the back of his neck, holding him there. "Easy. Deep breaths."

Neal nodded and inhaled a few more times. That kind of high didn't usually hit until at least a couple of hours after he was safely away from the con.

"You won?" Diana asked. "The whole thing?"

"Yeah, I killed," Neal breathed, waiting for the world to stop spinning. "Oh my God."

He heard Jones whisper to Peter. "Why's he freaking out?"

"Let me handle it," Peter said. "Bring the van."

"I'm good," Neal announced, maybe a little louder than he had to. He straightened slowly, and Peter's hand fell away. Everything was bright and sharp. Oooh, endorphins _and_ adrenaline. "I am very good."

Diana laughed. "Come on, Caffrey, you can sleep it off in the van."

He stumbled back to the van somehow, got inside and fell into a chair.

"Are you coherent?" Peter asked him, as the van began to move.

"Mostly," he replied. Jones was sitting unnecessarily close -- oh, propping him up. He straightened a little. "Yeah, I'm, I got it. Whoa," he added, exhaling.

"Tell me what happened," Peter said. Neal focused on his face.

"I had to get Donovan out of the game, but he played hard," Neal said, hoping he was making sense. "We got down to him and me."

"Holy crap," Diana said.

"Yeah!" Neal agreed. "But I won. I kicked his ass. Hey, where's my hat?" he added, looking around suddenly. Peter reached up, took it off his head, and put it in his hands. "Oh."

Diana grinned at him. "Take it easy."

"It's okay, this happens. It just doesn't usually hit this fast," Neal told her. He started laughing, because it really was funny. "This one time -- you are not allowed to arrest me for this," he added, turning to Peter. Peter held up his hands innocently. "This one time, we did a job, we were in Florence, and I thought okay, I'm getting old, I'm getting used to this, because it didn't hit me for two days. And we're walking along eating gelato and all of a sudden _bam_. The Antioch Manuscripts. I got to hold the Antioch Manuscripts in my hands."

"He talks about those when he's out of his mind," Peter said to Diana and Jones.

"I went over flat on the sidewalk. Kate thought I was having a seizure, she kept trying to hold my tongue down," Neal continued, still laughing. "Gelato went everywhere, and like three minutes later we hear an _ambulanza_ coming and we had to run from the EMTs. Run! It's healthcare!" he added, and dissolved into extremely embarrassing giggles.

"Wow," Diana said. "Should we be filming this?"

"Good blackmail," Jones added. Neal wheezed, sitting up, wiping the corners of his eyes.

"I'm gonna take him home," Peter announced, which jolted a whole new chemical surge through Neal's body. "You guys go home, get some rest."

Neal realized the van had stopped moving; when Peter pulled him up by his arm and guided him out, they were in the parking garage. He made it through saying goodnight at least semi-coherently and found himself in Peter's car, staring out at the lights of New York City as they scrolled past.

"You're a wreck," Peter told him, but he looked sort of affectionate anyway. "What happened?"

"Mm," Neal said, leaning back and closing his eyes. "After big scores, you know. It hits you. Never did a score this big for the feds before. Well." He opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Peter, who was for once concentrating on the road. "When we got the music box, you just weren't around to see that. I try not to be in public. People think I'm drunk. Or stroking out."

"Yeah, it crossed my mind," Peter said. "Feeling better?"

"Takes a while. I'll be fine in the morning. Oh, man," he added, as his stomach made itself known. "I'm starving."

"Just a couple more minutes. I have some leftover Thai," Peter said.

"Your place?" Neal asked.

"Yup."

"Elizabeth home yet?"

"Not for another few days. Why, tired of my company?" Peter asked, grinning. Neal drifted a hand past Peter's shoulder, reached up to brush his knuckles over Peter's cheek. Peter ducked his head away. "Not in the car, Caffrey. Christ, you are high."

Neal folded his hands in his lap and closed his eyes again. He could hear everything -- cars passing, people talking on street corners, Peter's breathing, the pistons in the car's motor.

When they got home, Satchmo was practically bursting; Peter shoved Neal in the direction of the stairs and herded the dog towards the back door. Neal stood indecisively on the bottom step, trying to remember what the hell he was supposed to be doing. Eventually, he tossed his hat on the knob at the bottom of the railing and climbed the stairs. In the bedroom he looked around again, caught sight of the little bowl on the mantel that El had put there for his things, and managed to fumble his cuff links off and into the bowl. He tried to take off his tie, got it caught in the tie bar holding it to his shirt, fussed with the bar until that came out, pulled the tie off, and then got his shirt unbuttoned. That was better; breathing a little easier now. He pulled off the shirt and struggled out of his shoes, flopping backwards onto the bed. 

Downstairs a couple of doors slammed, one after another, and then Peter was looming over him. "Up," Peter ordered, so Neal pushed himself up to sit on the edge of the bed; Peter sat down next to him on the bed and offered Neal a carton of food and a fork.

"Eating on the bed," Neal pointed out. "No art in bed, you said."

"This is food. I'll wash the cover," Peter replied. Neal shrugged and dug in. Oh, shrimp. Yum. "Feeling less insane?"

Neal nodded, stuffing his mouth with noodles.

"Chew," Peter ordered. Guiltily, Neal stopped trying to eat the whole carton at once and chewed. After he'd swallowed, Peter put out a hand and stopped him from taking another bite. "Okay. Slow down and take me through the whole thing."

They sat there on the bed, eating cold Thai food, and Neal took him step by step through the game -- every hand, almost every bet. Peter listened and occasionally asked a question, but mostly he just let Neal talk. He was aware he was talking fast, but the closer he got to the last hand the calmer he felt.

Normally, when they pulled a job this big and the hit finally came, Neal would be in some safe house or hotel room with Kate. She used to give him wine, which helped too. She loved to see him like that, or at least he thought she had. It was so hard to know, now.

He stopped talking abruptly when Kate's name fell out of his mouth, and looked up at Peter guiltily.

"It's fine," Peter said. Neal wondered how long he'd been talking about her. He'd eaten all his food, and there was a half-empty bottle of water in his hand. He took a long drink and then let Peter take it away from him; Peter was gone for a while and then came back and bent over Neal, hands working at his belt. Neal lifted his head to kiss him.

"Nuh-uh," Peter said. "Sleep."

Neal looked down. Peter was undressing him and he wasn't even hard. Peter wasn't either.

"Okay," he agreed, and stood up long enough to get out of most of his clothes. He crawled under the blankets and up against the pillows while Peter did something in the background and then eased into bed next to him, breath warm on his shoulder, an arm secure around his waist from behind.

"I miss Elizabeth," Neal said quietly.

"Me too," Peter told him. "She's going to be sorry she missed this."

Neal laughed. "My break with reality?"

"Yup." Peter was warm and still, and his breathing was already slowing. Neal swung between taut nervous energy and a deep, bone-weary exhaustion. He wondered if Peter really understood, or if Neal just seemed like a crazy fucker who was finally cracking.

He took a breath, let it out slowly.

"The game is good," he said. "You get that, right?"

Peter must still be awake; his arm tightened slightly. "Mmhm."

"And you play it because you love it," Neal continued. "I know I look crazy but it's just...that good."

"You don't look crazy," Peter mumbled.

"It's right there," Neal continued. "It's _so_ good. If you love the game you have to play it. But you can't leave it. It goes on all the time, every hour, every day. Once you're in, it's what you think about before you go to sleep. You talk about it while you eat. You go for a walk, you scout marks. Sex turns into a con game. Everything you do is about the con."

"And they call me an obsessive," Peter said.

"You don't even realize it," Neal said. "I played it and I was good at it, I mean really good."

"Yeah, I do know that part," Peter sighed.

"No, you don't get how good I was. It was a point of pride. I never ripped off someone else's con. Every job I set up I invented start to finish."

"I know that too," Peter said, surprising him. "I studied you, I wasn't fucking around those three years I was after you."

Neal laughed a little. "Yeah, but there's still stuff you don't know. You know the job at SFMOMA I supposedly may have been involved in?"

Peter kissed his shoulder. "It's in the files. What was that, '05? After the Raphael."

"Yeah. I was -- "

"Twenty-four. It was a hell of a heist. Solid work. One of your last before I caught you," Peter reminded him.

"I invented that con when I was eighteen. I did the groundwork when I was sixteen. I just never got around to going to California until I was twenty-four. If I'd been in California when I was eighteen, I'd've done it then."

"You miss it," Peter said, which was the entire point of what Neal was saying.

"I feel like I'm selling out. I'm a good cop, Peter."

Peter laughed.

"I am. You know it. What else are you going to call it?" Neal asked. "But I was a great thief. I get a high like tonight, I wonder sometimes why I settle for being a good cop. Whether this is my bid for mediocrity."

Peter was silent so long Neal thought maybe he'd fallen asleep. Finally, he moved, exhaling a little, sliding his hand down. Neal froze, uncertain what was going on, until Peter cupped his hand around Neal's soft cock, through his briefs. Not a caress, more of...an enclosure.

"How many people got this close to you, Neal?" he asked.

"I don't keep track of the people I sleep with -- "

"Not what I asked," Peter rumbled in his ear. His hand was still there, unmoving, a warm but faintly threatening presence. "How many got as close to you as I did?"

"No one. Not even the Marshals."

"Mmhm. And how many people would you let do to you what Elizabeth and I do?"

Neal struggled not to pull away. "Just you."

"You never asked anyone else to cuff you?" Peter asked.

"No."

"Never begged like you beg me?"

"No," Neal repeated, voice strained. This was hot, he should be getting off on it, but his body was resolutely uninterested. Given Peter's grip, it might be just as well.

"Easy," Peter told him, kissing his neck. "Never wanted anyone else to?"

Neal shook his head, confused.

"Good," Peter said, and Neal realized this was as much for Peter as it was for him, because what he'd said sounded an awful lot like a prelude to a jailbreak. "You belong here. The game might be a high, but you can't have this and the game together. You can't be a good man and be in the game."

"Tonight was good," Neal said.

"Yeah, tonight was good, but it was legal good. You're better here," Peter added, sliding his hand back up to Neal's stomach, warm and settling under his shirt. Neal relaxed a little, relieved. "You know you are. You could go back, but you'd always know what you gave up. This makes you happy."

"Happy?" Neal asked, a little incredulous.

"Tell me I'm wrong," Peter said.

Neal shook his head. "I...worry about being happy. I worry about being content."

"That's because you're messed up," Peter told him, "and you spent half your life being miserable and telling yourself you weren't. Now," he added, in a voice that brooked no disobedience, "Go to sleep."

Exhaustion overtook adrenaline; he was full of food and warm and safe, and he'd hauled in nine hundred grand and nobody was going to arrest him for it. Yeah, so. That was okay. Neal slept.

***

When Peter woke the next morning, Neal was gone.

He had a brief oh-shit moment, but even before he was out of bed he caught sight of a large white object on the bedside table. It was a crane, folded out of a piece of printer paper that had been ripped along one edge to square it. He picked it up and unfolded it carefully. Neal had left a note inside the crane.

_Took off early, had some banking to do._

_Stole the last bagel, also a shirt. Caught a cab._

_Don't worry, I'm sane._

Peter reflected that when someone had to tell you they were sane, you were probably in over your head.

Neal was in good spirits that morning when he arrived at the office -- cheerful, energetic and charming, but lacking in the slightly desperate edge he'd had the night before. It was hard to characterize Neal's behavior as "natural", because who knew what went on in his head sometimes, but it was at least his usual con-everyone game, nothing more sinister.

Peter's phone rang halfway through the day; Sara was calling. He rubbed his face, glanced at Neal to check for any traces of guilt, and then picked it up.

"Sara," he said.

"Peter," she answered.

"Please tell me Neal didn't try to weasel that package out of you again."

She laughed a little, but it was a shaky laugh. "No. I have it. That's why I'm calling you. This package -- did you know what was in it?"

He leaned back. "I could make a guess. Documents about an airplane explosion?"

"Not exactly. I did a little digging. I didn't realize..." she hesitated. "I didn't realize Kate Moreau was killed. I didn't even know she'd been involved in the explosion. I have the explosion in my files, because of Neal, but...the newspapers didn't say much. The FAA and Homeland Security, getting information out of them is like banging your head against a wall."

"Yeah," Peter said. "The plane was on the tarmac, she was inside it -- "

"And you were there."

"How do you know that?" he asked. Through the glass wall of his office, he could see Neal juggling paperweights lifted from three different agents' desks. He caught Jones's eye and tipped his head.

"The package is a copy of the black box recording," Sara said.

"How the hell did Neal get his hands on it?" Peter demanded, sitting forward.

"I don't know. I don't know why he sent it to me, I don't know why he had to steal it from me. I think I was just a drop. I'm not sure that matters." She took a deep breath.

"What does it say?" Peter asked. Outside, Jones caught one of the paperweights and held it under Neal's nose, warningly.

"You don't know?" Sara asked.

"I was involved. I can't officially participate in the investigation, and it's Homeland Security's deal anyway. They're working with our Counterterrorism guys, but if I go poking around I could get in a lot of trouble."

"But you are anyway," Sara surmised.

"I'm following a few outside leads," Peter admitted. "Can you hear me on the black box? I wasn't even on the tarmac."

"No. It's Kate. She calls someone, and says that you're there, she doesn't know why you're there. Then she asks if this changes some plan...then nothing." Sara inhaled again. "What were you doing there?"

Peter looked up through the glass wall again. Neal was talking easily with Jones now, grinning, making a joke. The paperweights had vanished.

"Trying to stop Neal from getting on the plane," he said. "He and Kate cut a deal with one of our offices. They were getting out. I thought Neal should stay. So, I went and told him he should."

"He was there?" she asked. "He was actually there when it blew?"

"Yeah. We both saw it."

"He saw her die," Sara said, almost to herself.

"He saw enough," Peter replied. She was silent. "Look, Sara, you shouldn't have that and I shouldn't know about it."

"How far do you trust Neal?" she asked. "Really. Being honest with yourself. How far?"

Peter sighed. "The problem with Neal is that how far you should trust him is directly related to how far he trusts you. I caught him, I got him out of prison, I'm his handler. I can afford to trust him. You? I don't know, Sara. I know he likes you. He's got a thing for your hair."

She laughed. "What?"

"It's an artist thing, I don't dig too deep. If you don't want to give the recording to him, don't. He has to learn to live with his mistakes, which is turning out to be a very long process for me. But he likes you. I think he'd like you a lot more -- "

" -- if I got off his ass about the Raphael."

"I'm not saying you should. Part of the reason he trusts me is that I caught him. He knows I'm better than him; if you nail him for the Raphael...I don't want him going back to prison for it. But I do wish you good luck in the chase."

"Do you think I should give the recording to him?" she asked.

"It's your decision, Sara. If it were me, I would," Peter said. "On the other hand -- "

"You're his friend," she finished.

"And I saw what the explosion did to him. I think he might say he wants to catch Kate's killer, but at bottom what he really wants is to hear her voice again."

"Jesus, Peter, you know how to tell a sad story."

"Thanks, it's a hobby. Besides, you could always double-con him," Peter added. "Get far enough inside his defenses, he might hand over the Raphael to you without a fight."

She _hmm_ ed thoughtfully into the phone.

"Can I make an inappropriate and sexist suggestion?" he asked.

"It wouldn't be the first I've heard," she replied.

"If you give it back to him, wear something orange. He likes you in orange."

"He's never seen me in orange," Sara pointed out.

"Trust me."

"Yeah. Okay. Thanks," she said. "I get the feeling this probably won't be the last time we talk."

"Take care, Sara," he said. She hung up.

The next morning, Neal was subdued and thoughtful, paging idly through cold cases and shrugging off Diana's invitation to lunch. Peter watched, made sure he wasn't running himself into the ground, and let him be.

***

After Sara brought Neal back the package, he spent a little time in shock. It was the most humane thing any relative stranger had done for him in a long time, especially a stranger who saw through the game. He drifted through work that day grateful that they had no case and that Peter left him alone; that night he played the recording, and grief pushed away everything else.

Still, he had been grieving for months, and now he knew how to go about it so that it didn't encroach on his work. He walled it away and the next morning he was clear-headed enough to realize -- well, first, that he needed to be on for work, or Peter really would find some way to prod him into talking, and second, that he _owed_ Sara. She ought to know he was grateful.

He went back to the flower shop where he'd bought the first bouquet for her and bought a single orange calla lily. This time the note was more genuine: _It is the duty of the living to remember the dead. Thank you. NC._ She didn't call to acknowledge it, but when he got back from lunch that day there was a single white lily in reply, sitting in a narrow vase on his desk, no note.

White lily. A mourning flower.

Neal hadn't been allowed out of prison to attend Kate's funeral. Peter had gone; he'd told him about it during one of their visits, stumbling over his words even after Neal reassured him that he wanted to hear about it, wanted to know. But Neal hadn't been able to pay her his final respects, and that hit him sharply when he saw the flower.

He chewed on the inside of his lip, telling himself to cowboy up and not have a Moment in front of the entire FBI. The feeling passed; he sat down at his desk and got to work.

About an hour later his phone rang, which was frankly surprising; the phone on his desk never rang, and he had taken to treating it like a prop, like maybe it wasn't even connected. He frowned at it and then answered it to amuse himself: "Neal Caffrey, White Collar crime."

"Mr. Caffrey, this is Deputy Daniel Braddock with the US Marshals," said a voice on the other end of the line. Neal immediately lifted his leg and checked his ankle, but the tracker's light was green.

"How can I help the Marshals?" Neal asked carefully.

"Did Agent Burke make you aware of our recent intel regarding Shane Barlowe?"

"Yeah," Neal said, perplexed. Jones drifted over to his desk, looking curious. "Barlowe's trying to run things from the pen, and our guy Clive was marked a flight risk."

"Well, he flew," Braddock said. "Someone tried to nail him and he took off."

"Clive, you _idiot_ ," Neal groaned.

"We're on his trail now, but he did a good job disappearing. We're letting Burke know as well. If he tries to contact you -- "

"Believe me, I'm going to grab him by the ear and drag him back to you," Neal said. "I don't need Shane Barlowe trying to kill either one of us."

"We're putting surveillance on your address; if you want additional measures, just let us know."

Neal rubbed his eyes. "Hey, listen, I'm not the only person living there. Keep it subtle, okay? There's kids at that house all the time, and Clive's not a violent guy."

"Do you think it's likely he'll try to contact you?"

"Not especially," Neal drawled. "He's too smart to run for New York. I'll keep an eye out, though."

"We appreciate the courtesy, Caffrey. We'll be in touch," Braddock said, and hung up. In his office, Peter was hanging up as well.

"Neal!" He yelled across the bullpen. "Diana!"

"Yeah, I heard," Neal yelled back, but he hurried across and up the stairs. "The US Marshals just called my desk phone. I didn't think that thing even worked."

"I gave them your number," Peter said distractedly. Diana arrived in the doorway right after Neal. "Diana?"

"Yep," she said. "What can I do, boss?"

Peter gave her a small grin. "This is your case, you're the lead."

"The Marshals want me to go help them search," she said.

"So? Up to you if you do. Where were they keeping Clive?"

"Chicago," she said. Neal groaned again. "What?"

"It's the transit capital of the country," he said. "It's got two airports, Amtrak's major hub, a local city-to-suburb rail network, and a _giant lake_. If they were keeping him in an actual airplane he would have been less of a flight risk."

"You gonna go to Chicago?" Peter asked. Diana looked down at the file.

"You think we can track where he went from there?"

"Yeah, you? You probably can. Congratulations," Peter added. "You've got your very own Neal Caffrey to chase."

"Great," Diana sighed.

"Hey!" Neal gave her an offended look. She patted his arm.

"I want you to do a write-up," she said. "Everywhere you think a kid like him would go. You think he's coming here?"

"There's no way he's dumb enough to come back to New York," Neal said. "He knows I'd just kick him back to the Marshals."

"Great. Can you work up a profile on where he'd go?" she asked.

"Yes, boss," he said. She grinned.

"Good," she told him. "Email me when you're done, or if you need access to the case files. I'm gonna go pack a bag. Peter?"

"Go. I'll handle the Marshals," Peter said, which was cryptic. Neal eyed him as Diana left. "Come on, we have to make some calls."

"On who?" Neal asked, following him out.

"Clive ran because someone made a try for him," Peter said, hurrying down the stairs. "Jones! Taking Neal, we got work to do. Call me if anything exciting happens."

"I live for desk work," Jones called back. Peter snorted.

"You think the Marshals have a leak?" Neal asked. "I mean, if you want to find someone there are plenty of ways."

"Let's lock down the Marshals. If Barlowe found Clive, he might find us next. Which is why," Peter added, "we have a stop to make first."

***

The stop turned out to be the FBI seizure and evidence warehouse.

"Hey, Brian," Peter said, as he checked his gun and showed his badge at the front desk.

"Agent Burke," the man behind the desk said. "Back for more caviar and booze?"

Peter grinned. "Not this time. I need to fit out Caffrey here."

"Fit out?" Neal asked, alarmed.

"No problem. Off the books?"

"If that works for you."

"Sure," Brian said.

"And I need lockbox 10-22," Peter added.

"I'll send someone to grab it." Brian passed him a pair of keys. "Have fun. Bring me the tags, I'll take care of it."

"Off the books?" Neal asked, as Peter opened the door to the warehouse. "Fit me out? Are we having me killed?"

Peter shook his head. "Nope. Come on."

He led Neal down the first aisle, stopping at a large chain-link cage set back in the wall. Neal stared at the huge rack of guns on the other side of the wire.

"You want a gun?" Peter offered, as he unlocked the cage door. Neal shook his head. "Yeah, didn't think so."

Neal followed him in, edging carefully past the guns. Peter walked to a second rack, where a series of batons hung on pegs.

"Ever use one of these?" he asked, taking down a slim, short, vicious-looking baton.

"I saw Sara use hers," Neal said. "Hers was thicker," he added.

Peter swung his arm down, flicking his wrist slightly. The baton telescoped, whistling in the air. Neal stepped back instinctively.

"Yours is longer," Peter said, passing it over. Neal took it between two fingers. "Barlowe's not screwing around. You don't want a gun, and I don't want you carrying; ergo, you get an asp."

Neal pushed the end of the baton back into its housing, carefully pointing it away from himself and Peter. "And you think I'm somehow not going to kill myself with this?"

"They're not hard to use. There's YouTube videos," Peter waved a hand, already digging in a set of drawers below the batons. He came out with what looked very much like some kind of nylon bondage harness.

"Uh," Neal said.

"It's a wrist holster," Peter told him drily. "I'll show you how to rig it later," he added, tossing it to Neal.

"Are we allowed to take this stuff?" Neal asked.

"Agents get some leeway," Peter said. "It's not illegal for you to carry it. If you kill someone with it, I might get my ass kicked. Otherwise we're good."

"What's lockbox 10-22?" Neal asked, as Peter dug in yet another drawer, coming up with a Taser. "Come on, I'm not going to Tase someone."

"You don't have to," Peter said. "You just have to look like you will."

"10-22?" Neal repeated.

"Elizabeth's gun," Peter answered, taking the baton and holster back and ripping off the ID tags tied to them.

"Elizabeth has a _gun?_ " Neal demanded, following him out.

"She's married to an FBI agent, you better believe she has a gun," Peter said. "Gun, lockbox, license, and training. She doesn't like having it in the house, so we keep it here. When I think she might need it, I grab it and we keep it at home."

Neal's blood chilled. "Has she ever needed it?"

"She's never aimed it at anyone, no," Peter replied. "First time for everything, though."

He tossed the tags on the counter; Brian took them and tucked them in an envelope, filing it in a drawer. He looked approvingly at the asp and Taser, then hoisted a small plastic crate onto the counter. Inside was a handgun lockbox and a cleaning kit.

"Thanks," Peter said, dumping his treasure into the crate.

"Keep safe," Brian told him, tossing off a sarcastic salute. Peter grinned and dropped the crate into Neal's arms, leading him back out to the car.

"I'm having issues picturing Elizabeth with a gun," Neal said, setting the crate on the backseat and closing the lid, tucking away all the firepower inside it.

"So does she. So do I. But the bad guys are armed and they sometimes like coming after families," Peter said, settling himself in the driver's seat. He crossed his wrists on the steering wheel and turned to Neal. "You remember the Cosi job?"

"Allegedly, I might," Neal said cautiously.

"That was what, '04? I spent a month trying to lock you down."

"Lock someone down," Neal corrected.

"I was in Denver for a month," Peter continued. He started the car. "A month without my wife."

"Hey, you coulda let...the suspect...walk," Neal said.

"I did, when the suspect sent my wife flowers and a note of apology that her husband was detained," Peter told him. Neal grinned nostalgically; the grin dropped away when he saw the expression on Peter's face. "The suspect _knew where I lived_. He was sending gifts to my wife. These things? They throw up flags."

"Peter, I didn't -- "

"I know that, and you know that," Peter said, pulling out of the warehouse parking lot. "I knew that then. You never pulled violent jobs. But I couldn't take that chance, not with Elizabeth. That's why I left Denver before we could nail you down."

Neal stared at him. "You seriously thought I was a danger to her? Was she scared?"

"Of you? No. Of the people you ran with? Yeah, a little."

"Jesus, Peter, I didn't know," Neal said. "I wasn't trying to freak her out. I just thought it was funny."

Peter gave him a sidelong look. "So did she," he admitted. "I was unamused."

"I'm sorry," Neal said, genuinely distressed that he'd scared Elizabeth, that he'd upset Peter enough that Peter had made her keep a gun in the house. He'd just been playing a game, messing around.

"Well." Peter tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "You can make it up to her next time she's home. Not with flowers," he added.

A thought occurred to Neal, a very unhappy thought. "Um."

Peter turned to him. "Neal, what did you do?"

"I sent Sara flowers," Neal said. "Just to say thank you! For me not getting shot."

"I think Sara is aware that you know where she lives," Peter said drily. "Also, it's a little late not to piss her off, and she seems very at home with firearms, so you probably don't need to worry."

Neal rubbed his head. "You know, it's occurring to me that you might actually be better at girls than I am, and that's really sad."

Peter was smiling. "For a start, calling them women helps a lot. It's amazing what you learn about them when you don't spend all your time flirting with them. I told you: don't come after me until you've tried to keep a beautiful woman happy for ten years. And," he added, "this discussion is over, because we are about to walk into the U.S. Marshals' office and wave my badge around like it's a target. You need to keep quiet and behave."

"Hey, you're the one who hauled me along," Neal pointed out. "Quiet in a room full of Marshals, I can do that."

He did, too; he sat in an alcove off Braddock's office while Peter steamrolled the Marshals into letting him see their documentation and talk to their people to find out if there was a leak in the New York office. Peter brought him Clive's case file to study and a cup of coffee that was only superior to the FBI's coffee because it was more than lukewarm. Neal had never really understood how someone could ruin coffee until he'd started working for Peter; considerations of grind and roast aside, ordinary coffee wasn't that hard to make. You put the grounds in the basket, poured in the water, and pushed the button. Somehow the federal government had still managed to mangle it.

Mostly he listened -- listened for what he could hear through the wall, while Peter talked to people on the other side. Listened to Braddock give orders on his phone whenever Peter wasn't using the room. And he listened to Peter and Braddock change his tracker information.

"Am I getting a new radius?" he asked, when Peter walked into the room. He'd been working on a sketch, having run out of other things to do -- he was going for a photo-realistic drawing of Peter's Glock 23, but he was having a hard time remembering the exact shape of the ribbing on the grips. "Two miles is so last year."

"New alert level," Peter told him, sitting down. "You were on code three. Now you're on code one."

"I feel special," Neal said, shuffling the sketch under some other paperwork. "What's code one?"

"Your tracker gets cut or unlocked or you put a foot outside your radius without a permit on the logs, and I get an alert on my phone," Peter said. "If I don't respond within a minute, both Hughes and I get a call. If neither of us responds, a BOLO goes out to every NYPD radio and a team scrambles to your last known location. You lose the hardware or leave your radius and cops are on you within five minutes, guaranteed. Do not leave without warning me first," he said.

"What's the point of this?" Neal asked, leaning back.

"For them? You try to take Clive out of the city, you get caught. For us? If Barlowe's guys come after you, our response time has just dropped from fifteen minutes to five."

Neal nodded. "So. Done here for now?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think so. You hear anything that set off alarms?"

Neal looked at him, startled.

"What, you think I put you in there to read paperwork?" Peter asked. "Don't tell me you weren't listening the whole time."

"Didn't hear much that pinged me weird," Neal replied. "If the leak's here they're pretty cool about it."

"Yeah. Might be in Chicago. Makes our job easier, nobody there knows who we are," Peter said. "Come on. You have a write-up to do for Diana, and Jones can teach you how to use the asp."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> The SFMOMA job referenced here was written up by Anya, one of my betas, in the fanfic **[Profile](http://neifile7.livejournal.com/32211.html)**. It's gorgeous, and you should check it out!  
>  Some types of white collar felons can indeed carry firearms under Federal law, US Code 18 U.S.C. 921(a)(20)(A). I'm not certain if Neal counts, but as I understand it there is some wiggle room in the language. The NRA has also **[worked to rearm convicted felons](http://www.vpc.org/studies/felons.htm)** under the Relief From Disability program. (Please note -- the article linked to contains citations regarding homicide and assault that may be triggery. Read at your own risk.)


	12. Chapter 12

Elizabeth came back from her last trip ("I swear, this is the last one, no more!") at two in the afternoon, and didn't expect either Peter or Neal to be at the airport waiting for her. Both of them were.

"My boys," she said, as Peter hugged her and Neal lifted her carry-on out of her hands. She hugged Neal next, felt him slip a kiss against her ear, and then she hugged Peter again. He smelled like gunpowder. She leaned back and raised an eyebrow.

"Firing range," he said, holding up his hands. "We stayed out of trouble."

"Good," she told him. "In that case I have presents."

"Seriously?" Neal asked, at the same time Peter said, "Hon, we're not twelve."

Peter glanced at Neal. "Some of us aren't twelve," he corrected himself. Elizabeth just grinned and tugged at her carry-on until Neal held it out so she could open it. One palm-sized silver-and-black box for Neal, and a larger square white box for Peter, who tucked his up in his hand and held it at his side while Neal opened his.

"Wow," Neal said, when he took the lid off, not so much with wonder or joy as sheer dumbstruck numbness. "Wow."

Elizabeth kissed his cheek -- nothing an affection for one's husband's friend couldn't explain away. "Turn it over."

Neal tugged the silver tie bar out of its felt setting, fingers nimble as they rotated it. Engraved on the inside of the front was the legend _For N, from E, love._ He handled it like it was made of porcelain, cautious and delicate as he undid the bar holding his tie and slipped the new one into its place. The front was engraved too, just a random, swirling design she'd thought might suit him. He looked at her, the smile on his face at once brilliant and shy. Elizabeth felt a circuit complete: Peter had once repeated to her what Neal had said, that they had rings for each other and Neal had a tracker but no way of laying claim to them. No way of showing her claim on him. Now he did.

"And Peter," she said, before the tableau could get embarrassing. Peter held up the box and lifted the top, pulling out a stream of tissue paper and then recoiling in startled horror for a second as he saw what was underneath. Neal leaned over and then started back as well. Elizabeth wished she had a camera.

Peter carefully hooked his finger into the box and pulled out the gift -- a small, taxidermied alligator head.

"They were selling them by the roadside when I was in Orlando," Elizabeth said. "It screamed 'Peter' at me."

"It's screaming something," Neal said. Peter's face, now that he was past the initial shock, was lit up with glee.

"It's great!" he said. "I can put it on my desk. Look, the teeth stick out, I could put my business cards in it."

"You are not well people," Neal informed them. Peter kissed Elizabeth, then carefully tucked the thing back in the box. Neal and Peter exchanged a look over her head.

"Boys..." she said, glancing from one to the other. Neal was better at the poker face; Peter could be slick when he wanted, but not around her.

"We have something for you, too," Peter sighed. "You're not gonna like it."

As they walked to the car, Peter explained (with occasional colorful embroideries from Neal) that one of their witnesses had been threatened and disappeared, and that if the leak got out before Peter and Neal's names were removed from the records, they might be next. Elizabeth was more or less used to Peter occasionally having to watch his back, and she knew Neal had spent a lifetime doing it, so she wasn't worried so much as concerned --

Until she saw the lockbox sitting in the trunk of the car.

"Oh, hon," she sighed, setting her luggage down on top of it. "The gun, really?"

"Told you she doesn't like it," Peter said to Neal, who was sliding into the back seat.

"You think I like this thing?" Neal asked, holding up his arm. Elizabeth saw blacked metal at his wrist. Neal looked at her, pulled his cuff back, and made a face; the blunt end of an asp in a wrist-holster was visible. "He makes me keep a Taser in my desk at work."

"I wish you'd keep it at home," Peter said.

"There are children in my home," Neal retorted. "Samantha comes over all the time, I'm not keeping a Taser anywhere near her."

Elizabeth smiled and ran her fingers up Peter's neck as he pulled them out of the parking garage, stroking the soft hair on the back of his head. "He's looking out for us, Neal. I don't like having the gun, but I know when it comes out he's serious."

"I don't like guns," Neal muttered rebelliously.

"Did I make you take one?" Peter asked.

"So!" Elizabeth interrupted brightly. Both of them looked slightly guilty for fighting. "Are we going home?"

"We are," Peter agreed. "I'm dropping Neal at Federal Plaza."

Elizabeth pouted at Neal in the rearview mirror. He shrugged.

"Looks a little suspicious, apparently," he said, with a darted glance at Peter. "Besides, you know. Time alone. I get it."

He sounded convincing, but Elizabeth was getting better at reading him; he also looked sad. She turned in the seat and rested her chin on it, smiling at him.

"We'll miss you," she said. "Besides, look at it this way -- "

" -- I'm trusting you with the entire FBI without my supervision," Peter finished.

"You know that psychic-married-couple thing you do is scary sometimes," Neal said, but he was smiling now, a real hundred-percent-Neal smile. His hand drifted up to the tiebar on his chest, fingers framing the length of it briefly before he let go.

They left Neal outside the federal building with a wave and another kiss on the cheek from Elizabeth. By the time they got home she was feeling the post-flight exhaustion setting in.

"All I want is something hot to eat and someone to curl up with," she said, as Peter hauled her suitcase out of the trunk. He caught her around the waist and kissed her in the front yard, pulling her close.

"That can be arranged," he said. "Go in, I'll bring your stuff. There's a pot roast."

"You're my favorite husband," she told him, and he grinned goofily as he locked the car.

***

Neal spent most of the afternoon working on cold cases, which was at least better than paperwork. Two of the cold cases were his own work, which was interesting reading -- seeing what slipped through the cracks, finding out what kinds of crimes went past Peter's meticulous and well-researched radar. Perhaps they hadn't; they were Peter's cases. On the other hand, if they were tied to Neal, there was no record of it in the files. They were oddball jobs, after all, not his usual gigs. One had been to secure a birthday gift for Kate; the other had been a favor he owed from his time in Japan.

Kate had looked beautiful, wearing the necklace he'd lifted on the Boston job. He remembered it vividly -- Greek workmanship from the Hellenistic era, alternating links of gold and carved garnet, just a fragment of its original glory but long enough to be worn as a choker, with a little modern gold pin at the back to hold it in place. It was well out of the usual period he dealt in, and the FBI was probably more interested in the fact that someone had broken into the museum to steal it than the value of the thing itself. He wondered what Kate had done with it. Maybe she'd fenced it, or tucked it up in a cache somewhere that might now never be found.

He remembered thinking, as he clasped the necklace around her throat, that men who'd lived and died seventeen hundred years before had handled it, had hung it around the throats of other beautiful women. He'd kissed the back of her neck and murmured that he'd make her a queen.

Two desks down, Jones hung up the phone and groaned, leaning back in his chair, snapping Neal out of his thoughts. He glanced over. "Problem?"

"Nah," Jones waved a hand. "It's the manhunt in Chicago."

"Clive?"

"Yeah. Diana's annoyed. He's pretty much disappeared. Half the Marshals she's working with think someone really did get to him and they're gonna find him in the river," Jones said.

"You think?"

"I think we'd have found a body by now," Jones said. "You kill a witness before a trial, you might hide it. Kill 'em after a trial, that's just plain revenge. People want revenge to be visible."

"They teach you that at Harvard?" Neal asked, grinning.

"Hey, academia is cutthroat. I was varsity in public humiliation."

"Giving or getting?"

"Both," Jones said sourly. "You got any more bright ideas about where he might've gone? Diana's gone through your checklist already."

"He's not a professional." Neal frowned. "He's only done two jobs, unless he was conning me when he said that, and I don't think he was. He shouldn't be able to get away that clean."

"Yeah, well, maybe he picked up a few things."

"He might've shacked up with someone. That was his thing in New York. Clive doesn't like to work alone," Neal added, sitting forward. "I put that in the writeup, though. So -- Diana's still there for a while?"

"Marshals'll handle it from here, and they got some good guys out in Chicago. She's back in a few days. They pick up the trail again, she'll be there," Jones said.

"We should throw her a party," Neal said. "You know. Welcome To The Manhunt."

"Somehow I don't think she'll appreciate that," Jones drawled.

"Hey, it took Peter three years to catch me. Clive's good -- but he's not me," Neal said, grinning. "And from here it looks like quitting time. You wanna get a drink?"

"Sure," Jones said, starting shutdown on his computer. "Nowhere too upscale, some of us pay for our own drinks."

"You know Enright's?" Neal said, pulling his coat on.

"The cop bar on West 22nd?" Jones asked.

"Yeah, I owe a Sergeant a couple of drinks. Besides, they like me," Neal assured him.

"Of course they do," Jones muttered, following him out.

***

The next case they caught, a couple of days after El came home, was of course on a Saturday morning that Peter had planned to spend alternating between a baseball game and some fix-its around the house -- the windows needed sealing and Satchmo had been chewing on the kitchen baseboards again. He wasn't a destructive dog, usually. He just had something against baseboards.

He got the text message from Jones while he was still dressing ( _Hughes wants us in, call for details_ ) and groaned, throwing his jeans back in the closet and pulling out a clean set of work clothes.

"Neal," he yelled, and the water shut off in the shower. A few seconds later Neal -- damp, naked, toweling his hair -- walked into the bedroom.

"What?" Neal asked. "By the way, this is an ungodly time to be awake on a Saturday."

"It's good we are," Peter said, tossing him the phone. Neal studied it while he dried himself. "They want me, they probably want you too."

"So much for leisurely breakfast," Neal sighed. "I need one of your ties. Not one of the ugly ones," he added. Peter narrowed his eyes at him. "What? Some of your ties, Peter, they cause me pain."

"I like my ties," Peter said.

"That's because you don't have to look at them," Neal told him, going for the rack in the closet. "Where's Elizab -- hm," he grunted, as Peter caught him around the waist, holding him there. Neal turned his head a little to meet Peter's eyes, and Peter smiled.

"Say please," Peter said. Neal rolled his eyes. "I'm the boss, I can deny you access to my ties."

Neal leaned in close, lips near Peter's ear. "Please, sir, may I have a necktie?" he asked, tone only slightly mocking. Peter let him go.

"Elizabeth's downstairs, she has an event," Peter said, as Neal began going through the ties. "Come down when you're ready, I gotta find out what's going on."

He left Neal humming smugly to himself as he dressed. Downstairs, he called Jones, only to find that Jones didn't know anything -- just that everyone was being called in, and it sounded important.

"You want me to go rustle out Caffrey?" Jones asked, right as Peter said _No, sugar_ in response to El's attempts to pass him the cream. "Sorry, what?"

"Not you, Jones," Peter sighed. "No, I'll bring Neal in. Okay, yeah, I'm on my way."

And it wasn't that Peter was tired of Neal, or didn't want him around, but as he and Elizabeth both started gathering up their things for the long workday (long _Saturday_ workday) ahead, he realized they'd hardly had a minute alone together, just him and El, since she'd come back from traveling. Either one or both of them had a late shift or Neal was over, and it felt unfair to El, who had been traveling alone while he'd been in New York with Neal.

Navigating a threesome was turning out to be trickier than he'd anticipated, for reasons having nothing to do with the threat of losing his job or his wife.

"You and me, bottle of wine, and a movie," he told her. "No work, no discussion of work, no excuses."

Which he really should have known would just curse his whole goddamn day.

The case was a manhunt, which Peter was good at and on some level enjoyed, but they always carried their share of frustration. This one was complicated by the fact that they were hunting one of their own, an FBI agent who was caught up in some mess with the US Marshals -- and of course the Marshals themselves were a problem in the form of John Deckard, who was not nearly as agreeable as Braddock. Deckard hadn't liked Peter poking around for a leak when Clive was threatened, and he obviously didn't like working with Peter or with Neal.

If Peter rubbed Deckard's nose in the fact that the FBI caught Neal, and not the Marshals, well. He was only human. And he got his comeuppance a few minutes later when he found out who they were chasing: Jack Franklin, the FBI's cautionary tale made manifest. Because Franklin was a good agent, a more highly-decorated agent than most, and --

"What happened?" Neal asked, obviously curious about how Franklin had ended up in Bank Fraud.

"He had an inappropriate relationship with a CI," Peter told him. Neal looked more intrigued than anything.

"How inappropriate?" he asked gleefully.

"Do you want me to draw you a diagram?" Peter asked. Neal narrowed his eyes.

"Can we be that inappropriate?"

"Neal -- "

"Are we already?" Neal asked, and then his eyes really lit up. "Are we _more_ inappropriate?"

"This is not a discussion I'm having with you in the middle of the Federal Building!" Peter hissed. Neal closed the folder he'd been studying, looking contrite. Peter sighed. "Of course we're more inappropriate. I'm married, and you're in my custody. This is..."

"Kinda kinky?" Neal prompted, in a low voice.

"So incredibly outside the rules," Peter told him. "Franklin got sent to metaphorical Siberia. This gets out, I lose my job. Maybe I go to prison. That's why we do things the way we do them. You've got to be careful, Neal, do you get this? Really careful."

Neal nodded. "I get it. I'm on board. I swear, Peter."

"Okay. Let's find Franklin before the Marshals do."

The problem with finding Franklin, of course, was that first he had to handle Franklin's CI, which wasn't easy. Every agent had their own way of handling their informants, and building a rapport with one in the course of a five-minute conversation was a challenge. All CIs had trust issues; neither Rebecca nor Neal were exceptions, and they were more alike than he was perhaps comfortable admitting.

Coming face to face with Franklin was a little like looking in a mirror: _This could happen to you, Special Agent Burke, so ask yourself if Caffrey's worth it._

He was, of course he was. But it made his guts clench, especially the brief moment where Neal and Franklin met. He felt like the entire mess must be written on his face -- like Franklin, who had crossed a line, must know Peter had crossed the line too. Going on the run meant they'd crossed a new line together, and that forged a bond of sorts, a bond Peter found useful but didn't necessarily want.

Neal, really, was better at this. Better at concealing what he felt, better at working with what he had, and much, much better at this whole "fugitive" deal.

***

Neal might be a great fugitive but he'd had a lot of practice, and Peter was no slouch at it as an amateur. Besides, Peter was better at the chase. Neal didn't have the patience for surveillance and didn't see why he should have to; he preferred the hands-on approach. Why watch a bank for shift changes when you could get the staff schedule out of the manager? Anyone could sit in a van and watch a perp's (a _mark's_ ) house for hours, but it took real skill to go up to the door and knock and lure the mark (the _perp_ ) out into the open.

Staking out Peter's home felt stupid, which he could have tolerated because Deckard was stupid; anyone with access to Neal Caffrey ought to be able to come up with half a dozen ways of actively tricking a fugitive into showing himself, but Deckard wasn't interested in using Neal's skills, not the way Peter always was. Still, Neal could deal with stupidity when he had to.

The problem was that it also felt wrong, on a visceral level. In order to concentrate even as much as he normally did on a stakeout, he had to find something unlikeable about the person they were watching, and there was nothing unlikeable about Peter and Elizabeth. The worst you could say about Peter was that he'd gone on the run with Franklin and left Neal to make excuses for him, but it wasn't like Peter could help that. They weren't the Bad Guys (Neal tried not to think too much about how he must have been the Bad Guy for upwards of three years).

Neal would never be as good a cop as he had been a thief. Peter's philosophizing aside, that still bothered him. And so did this.

Sometimes he needled Peter, in the van, just to get smacked down; Peter's discipline was reassuringly constant and it was something to do while they waited. It occurred to him that this time, if he couldn't run a con from outside the van, he could run a pretty good one inside it. All you ever had to do was get the mark talking.

"This feels really, really wrong," he told Deckard, pacing back and forth near the cab entrance.

"Well, you could always tell us where he is," Deckard replied. The mark's first bite; always a little bit of a thrill when the game engaged.

"I wish I knew," he said. "Frankly I'm a little offended he hasn't contacted me."

"I'm not," Jones said, and Neal mentally applauded. Jones would make a good con man. "I want nothing to do with this. It's all on Peter."

Deckard didn't bite for Jones's act as hard as Neal would have liked; instead he launched into a speech about how he knew Peter was going to get in touch with one of them. Not the direction Neal wanted this conversation to go. Keep the mark's mind off the goal; make them watch one hand so they didn't see what the other was doing.

He'd noticed Deckard's keychain earlier, a belt-loop multi-ring with a series of digital keys hanging off it, and he'd wondered not so much whether one of the keys was his but just how many cons in New York were tethered like he was, and -- somewhat pointlessly -- how one would go about contacting them. The Tracker Club. Could be funny.

Now he let himself stare at it, long enough to get Deckard's attention, and Deckard bit again. Clearly the Marshals didn't have the high standards the FBI did.

"Yes. One of these keys goes to your anklet. How do you like the new model, by the way?" Deckard asked.

"You know, it's lighter than the last one," Neal said, anything to keep Deckard's attention on him and keep him talking. Jones would take every advantage of this he could, so at the moment it was Neal's turn to play distraction. "It's sleek. I get a lot of compliments."

"And the GPS is more accurate too," Deckard said, as if they were talking cars or grills or something. Neal was opening his mouth to bring up his radius issues when Deckard added, "Down to the yard."

It seemed innocent enough, but Deckard had turned in Franklin for fraternizing with his CI. If he had access to Neal's maps, he might know how often Neal "worked late" at Peter and Elizabeth's house.

"Yeah, I noticed," he said immediately, to keep from showing anything other than casual interest. He was into his patter about the White Bored exhibit and how unfair it was that he had to find an escort (maybe he could start a fight with Jones about it) when Jones cut the game short.

Mozzie was at the door to Peter and Elizabeth's house -- was inside, with Elizabeth, thankfully probably filling her in on where Peter and Franklin were. And when Mozzie emerged he was definitely playing bait, very tempting bait, bait that Deckard followed without a second thought.

Technically they were running a couple of circles around Deckard that balanced things in their favor, but even so Peter never would have fallen for this bullshit. He'd have taken one look at anyone stalling as obviously as Mozzie was and smelled something rotten.

Neal didn't know why they were hiding behind a bunch of cars at Rebecca The Hot CI's dealership, or why Mozzie had led them there, but he was willing to play along. The minute he saw Diana show up he probably would have copped to what was going on anyway, but it did help to get a call from Peter right in the middle of the mess. Peter had a way of explaining things that was a little bit like a sharp blade. It all became very clear very quickly.

"You ever run a Prisoner's Dilemma?" Peter asked, and Neal fought a grin.

"I've been in one," he said.

"Well, now's your chance to run it on a US Marshal," Peter told him. "You clear on what to do?"

"Crystal clear," Neal said, pleased and excited. He'd been set up in a Prisoner's Dilemma three times; time to get a little of his own back. "Thank you, sir."

He meant, of course he meant, to imply he was still talking to Bancroft. ADC Bancroft definitely merited 'sir' even from degenerate discipline-lacking CIs like Neal. On the other hand...

"Good," Peter said, his voice warm and rich, the best response he could give considering who was listening. Neal basked inwardly under the praise.

This was going to be so much fun.

***

Sunday afternoon found Deckard firmly in prison, Franklin reinstated to White Collar, and Peter walking out of a movie with El, bound for Donatella's and then a quiet night in.

"Am I out of the doghouse yet?" he asked, and Elizabeth laughed.

"Honey, you worry too much," she said, taking his hand as they crossed the parking lot to the car. "So Date Night got postponed a night. We've had worse. Effort counts," she added, leaning up to kiss his cheek. "No doghouse. Well. You might still be making it up to Satchmo for leaving him out in the yard for hours."

Peter was opening his mouth to reply when his phone rang; he almost ignored it, but Deckard was too recently imprisoned for him not to be just a little concerned. And sure enough...it was Bancroft.

"Peter Burke," he answered, leaning against the car while Elizabeth unlocked it.

"Burke, it's Bancroft."

"Yessir. Something come up with the case?" Peter asked, because he had to, and because if he was going to miss dinner it had better be for something important.

"Not so far as I'm aware," Bancroft replied. "It's about Caffrey."

Peter groaned. "What's he done?"

"Nothing. I wanted to notify you that he left his radius this morning."

"I didn't get a call from the Marshals," Peter said, frowning.

"I pulled some strings. Didn't want to bother you on your day off. We took in the White Bored exhibit at the Powell."

Elizabeth was watching him. Peter blinked.

"You and Neal," he said.

"Yes..." Bancroft sounded amused. "It really is an excellent installation."

"So I've heard." Peter circled around to the passenger's side as Elizabeth, apparently impatient, climbed into the driver's seat.

"And I thought you should know that I think you've done top-notch work with Caffrey," Bancroft continued.

"Uh...thank you, sir," Peter replied, baffled now.

"He's a very well-spoken, intelligent young man. Not what I would have expected. His views on art are more on the lines of a scholar's than a thief's. He seems to be on a good path. He says he owes you a lot."

"I do my best," Peter said.

"I'd like to see more CIs in such a good working relationship with their handlers."

Peter almost choked. "Thank you, sir."

"Keep it up," Bancroft said, and hung up.

"What was that all about?" Elizabeth asked. Peter looked down at the phone.

"Apparently Neal is a credit to my training and more CIs should have such a positive relationship with their handlers," he said. He looked up; she was trying very hard not to giggle, he could tell.

"You should do a seminar," she managed, before bursting out laughing. Peter leaned back and rubbed his eyes.

"Trade secret," he remarked, and then broke down laughing himself.

***

Of course, it didn't take long for Neal to turn around and become difficult after that; not even two days.

Peter had made the executive decision to leave Deckard in detainment all weekend and let him stew a little. They had a signed confession about his activities from Vogler, his partner in crime, so they didn't really need to interrogate him with any kind of urgency. What Peter had in mind was a fishing expedition, to see if their dirty Marshal was up to anything else, and maybe to humiliate Deckard just a little.

Jones had done good work on the case, and needed practice in interrogation anyway; on Monday morning, Peter tossed him Deckard's file and said, "Playmate for you."

"Yeah?" Jones asked, his face lighting up.

"Get anything you can out of him. Fuck with him," Peter said. "Have fun. I'll be in the observation room."

"Great," Jones replied happily, and went off to arrange for Deckard to be brought to interrogation.

Peter thought questioning someone like Deckard, who knew interrogation tactics and most of the mind tricks employed, would be difficult, and he wasn't proven wrong. Jones was still softening him up mid-morning when Neal (apparently bored with writing his report on the case) slunk quietly into observation.

"How's it going?" he asked, sitting down next to Peter and propping his legs up on the table. Peter gave him a look; Neal dropped his legs, leaning forward.

"It's fishing. We'll get something or we won't," Peter said.

"What's he looking at?"

"Twenty-five to life. Probably closer to life. The DA might charge him with treason -- selling classified government information. That would mean no parole."

"Good," Neal said.

Peter glanced at him. "That's a little intense, from an ex-con."

"Yeah, I know," Neal told him. "I blame you."

"Me?"

"It's your fault," Neal insisted. "I've totally bought into the fraternity of officers thing. I mean, I have known some serious scumbags in my time, guys who were at least as evil as him, maybe a lot worse. He's the first one I've ever really, you know, loathed this much, just for being a bent cop. It's kind of startling how much I hate him."

"Well, your scumbags were equal-opportunity scumbags," Peter pointed out.

"How do you mean?" Neal asked.

"They were guys off the street. They didn't have anyone backing them, or if they did, it was other guys off the street. You give a man like Deckard the power of the whole federal government behind him, what he did becomes...worse. It's bullying. People are supposed to trust us. Guys like Deckard are the reason they rarely do."

Neal nodded, silent, still staring at Deckard.

"He's gonna be tough to deal with," Peter added. "He knows too much about the system, too many contacts in bad places. They'll probably send him to prison out of state, where he can't do as much harm. That's anticipating, though. We have to get a conviction first."

"Yeah...speaking of that," Neal said.

"Neal..."

"No, just...he said something that's kind of freaking me out," Neal said. "He said my monitor's accurate to the yard."

"So?" Peter asked. "You knew that already."

"Yeah, and he knew that I knew it. So why tell me? It sounded..." Neal chewed on his lip. "It sounded like a threat. Like someplace I'd been was tipping him off."

Peter fought the cold crawl of anxiety in his chest. "Deckard's dirty. Nobody's going to believe him now, especially since we nailed him. Besides, everything he says sounds like a threat. He was probably bluffing."

"Yeah," Neal said, sounding doubtful, just as the door opened and Diana walked in, carrying a file folder.

"We got the evidence from Vogler's office," she said, handing it to Peter. "Got you a summary of the stuff Deckard didn't get to. The shreds are in evidence now."

"This is good work. Let's put some interns on assembling those," Peter said, flipping through it.

"You should read the last page," Diana said. Peter glanced at her and then turned to the last page in the file, skimming it.

"Oh," he said quietly.

"What?" Neal asked, leaning over his shoulder.

"Deckard's the one who sold out Clive," Peter said. "Clive's the last witness he sold -- _after_ the trial. Barlowe wanted revenge. Apparently he knew who to talk to."

"That son of a bitch," Neal breathed, and Peter looked up in alarm. Very few things made Neal truly angry, or at least very few things made Neal angry enough for it to show on his face. "That son of a -- "

"Neal!" Peter yelped, as Neal made for the door. He flailed and caught Neal's wrist, slowing him just long enough for Diana to block Neal's only exit. "Neal, don't do anything stupid."

"He's a kid, Peter!" Neal snapped, turning around, looking frustrated and impotent when Diana refused to move from the door. "Deckard sold out a kid, and Barlowe's crew went after him and now he's on the run."

"Yeah, and Diana's going to find him," Peter said. "You go in there, Deckard knows you were the one who sold Barlowe to the FBI in the first place and we're all in danger. Don't do something stupid."

Neal seethed, jaw tight, staring through the window at Deckard. Peter stood up and rested his hands on his shoulders from behind.

"We got him," he said, careful not to lean too close. "You know what happens to cops in prison. Let it go, Neal. Nothing we can do about it but put him away."

"What if he sold you too?" Neal asked. "What if they come after Elizabeth?"

Peter tightened his fingers a fraction. "There's no record in the files of our names being involved. We're safe. Elizabeth's safe. Calm the hell down, before I cuff you to something."

Neal barked a laugh, but his shoulders relaxed. "You know that'd only distract me for about ten seconds, right?"

Peter glanced at Diana, who was watching them with a carefully blank face. She nodded.

"Caffrey," she said. Neal glanced at her. "Buy me a coffee."

"Go on," Peter added, jerking his head at the door. "Take a minute, walk it off. Deckard's not going anywhere."

Diana took his arm -- a firm grip, just in case -- and pulled Neal out of the room. Peter walked back to the observation window where Deckard was smirking at Jones.

Clive shouldn't have the hold on Neal that he did. He was just a kid they'd worked with for a few days to hang up a drug kingpin on stolen-property charges. But Clive was a forger, and he'd been _in the game_. Peter knew that Neal still prized himself on being the man who could fix anything, especially for his brothers and sisters from the game. Until Neal, he'd never really considered the idea that crime was a brotherhood just like law enforcement was. Cops stuck together because they trusted each other. The reason the Prisoner's Dilemma worked so well was that crooks never seemed to have that much trust. 

Thinking about it was getting him nowhere; it was an insight, but not useful at the moment.

Unless...

He took out his phone and dialled Deputy Braddock.

"Hey Burke, your name is mud around here," Braddock answered.

"I'm not the crook," Peter replied, grinning.

"Is it true your pet con ran a Prisoner's Dilemma on Deckard?"

"My team ran it," Peter corrected. "You giving me shit about John Deckard now?"

"Hell no. What an asshole. Still, you know how people are. I wouldn't put my face in around here anytime soon."

"Yeah, that's sort of why I called," Peter said. "We're doing a little fishing with Deckard. How'd you like to run a play with me?"

"What did you have in mind?" Braddock asked.

***

Diana made Neal walk with her to the good coffee shop, further away from the Federal building and the cluster of Starbucks clones nearby, and then led him back to a bench in Columbus Park. She didn't seem like she expected him to talk, so he kept quiet, trying to get a harness on his anger. Anger was pointless; it made you sloppy and it didn't get the job done. Cons didn't get angry -- Brunhilda had taught him that. Cons got even, and getting even took patience. It was stupid to get angry about this at all. He didn't even know Clive that well.

He wished he had his sketchbook. He didn't like to be so attached to things, because a lot of times you had to run and leave them behind, but it wasn't the book, not really. If he could get lost in shadow and shape and negative space for a while, maybe this would go away.

"He's a kid," Diana said, and Neal wondered if he'd been talking aloud about Clive, or if she was just good at guessing. "Kids get to you. Everyone, I mean. It's always worse when a kid's involved."

"Clive's old enough to look after himself," Neal said, inexplicably feeling like he should be defending him.

"Yeah, but he's still a kid. It's okay to be pissed. Peter is."

"He doesn't show it," Neal muttered.

"He's had a lot more experience than you," Diana pointed out, as Neal's phone rang.

"Peter," he said, checking the ID. "I should answer." Diana nodded and Neal put the phone to his ear. "Peter?"

"Is Diana with you?" Peter asked.

"Yep."

"Are you alone?"

"Mostly. We're in the park."

"Okay. Put the phone on speaker and then listen," Peter said. Neal frowned, but he took it off his ear and pressed the speaker key. There was a clatter, like Peter's phone was being set down. A second later they could hear a door open and shut, and then another, this time tinny and distant, as if through another speaker.

"Did he leave his phone in the observation room?" Diana asked. Neal shook his head, uncertain, perplexed.

" _Okay, Jones_ ," Peter said, in the same slightly tinny tone. Neal raised the volume on his phone. " _Game's over._ "

" _Braddock,_ " another voice said -- Deckard. And then Braddock's voice too.

" _Deckard._ "

" _You here to spring me?_ " Deckard asked.

" _No,_ " Peter said, and there was a soft thump. A file landing on the table, Neal guessed. " _We're passing you back to the Marshals. They asked for you._ "

" _You did one of your own,_ " Braddock said. Diana raised her eyebrows at Neal. " _No more FBI deal offers, Deckard. You sold out one of us._ "

" _Clive Banks,_ " Peter's voice. Neal tightened his grip on the phone. " _Name sound familiar?_ "

" _He wasn't just a witness,_ " Braddock said.

" _Sorry,_ " Peter corrected himself, sounding very insincere. " _Deputy Clive Banks. You sold an undercover U.S. Marshal to a drug dealer, Deckard._ "

"Is that true?" Diana asked.

"No," Neal said, realization dawning. "They're playing him. They're using Clive to get to him. Fraternity," he added, mostly to himself.

" _My hands are tied,_ " Peter was saying, still in the same slightly sarcastic tone. " _Nothing I can do but give you back to them, see what they can get out of you. Try not to fall down any stairs on the way,_ " he added. Neal knew he was lying -- Peter would never mistreat a suspect in custody, and wouldn't turn a suspect over to anyone who would -- but it still gave him pause.

" _I'm not making any promises,_ " Braddock added.

" _You can't do this, Burke,_ " Deckard was almost babbling, he was talking so fast. " _You can't just hand me back, you know what he's gonna do --_ "

" _Hey, the only thing we've got you on is accessory to murder. You won't tell us anything, we might as well pass you off,_ " Peter said.

" _Wait -- wait, you offered me a deal,_ " Deckard insisted. " _I didn't know he was a Marshal. I can tell you things, I can get you connections -- Vogler knew a lot of people, I can give you names..._ "

Diana took the phone out of Neal's hands and hung up, grinning. Neal grinned back.

"You know what 'Burke' means?" she asked. Neal tilted his head. "The verb. It's an old slang word."

"From Burke and Hare," Neal said. "Resurrection men in the 1800s. They used to rob graves for cadavers for the local medical school."

"And?"

"And then they started killing people when they ran out of corpses," Neal said, intrigued by where this was going. "They used to smother them, that's why smothering was called Burking."

Diana nodded. "It didn't mark up the bodies as much. Burke got so good at killing invisibly that they put his name on it. To _Burke_ actually means to kill without leaving a trace."

"Very symbolic," Neal observed.

"Almost poetic," Diana agreed, standing up. "Ready to go back?"

"Yeah, I think so," Neal said.

He had gotten angry. Peter had gotten even. Quickly, almost effortlessly, and without leaving a trace.

"You ever feel like you've just realized mild-mannered accountant type is Peter's alter ego, and secretly he's a ninja?" Neal asked. Diana laughed.

"All the time," she said. "I think he cultivates it on purpose. You should know, though. He ninja'd you."

"I didn't appreciate it as much, then," Neal admitted.

"And now?"

"Every time he whips out a katana it still surprises me."

***

Peter wasn't sure why, when he told the team he was going undercover as an accountant, Diana and Neal exchanged a private grin. They'd both seen him undercover before -- sometimes with spectacularly death-defying results -- and he did have the degree for it.

"Working late tonight," Neal said to him in an undertone, as the briefing broke up. Not even a question, which was unusual for Neal. Peter glanced at him. "We have to talk."

"Should I be worried?" Peter asked.

"Yes," Neal said, but he was grinning. "You absolutely should."

He didn't worry, exactly, but the day did seem to drag and the drive home took forever, with Neal humming quietly to himself in the passenger's seat. Elizabeth was already home, and a night in seemed like a really good idea.

"You gonna tell me what we need to talk about?" Peter asked, as they pulled up to the house.

"It's more something you show, really," Neal said thoughtfully. Peter glanced at him. "Trust me."

"Yeah, _that_ doesn't set off alarms," Peter replied, but he unlocked the door and stepped inside. "El?"

"Hey," El called from the dining room, coming out to greet them. Peter kissed her -- oh, the absolute best part of the day -- and then stepped aside so Neal could bend down and let her kiss him on the forehead. It was their weird little quirk, but given his own weird giant quirks with Neal he wasn't really in a position to judge.

"So," she said, as Peter dropped a handful of files on the coffee table and wandered into the dining room, "Undercover, huh?"

"Yeah, Peter said regretfully, undoing his tie. God, there was food on the table and it smelled really good. "Might be gone for a couple of d -- "

He'd spoken as he was turning around, only to find that Neal had wrapped his arms around Elizabeth from behind and they were both watching him, smiling, Neal's head over Elizabeth's shoulder.

"What?" he asked.

"Let's have dinner," Elizabeth said, patting Neal's hands at her waist before pulling away gently. "You can tell me about your case."

"Is this tag-team, or ganging up?" Peter asked, but he sat down at the table and picked up a fork.

"Which works better?" Neal asked Elizabeth. She took them both in with an amused look.

"Tell me about the case," she said. "Your email was a lot about how sorry you are that you're going undercover and a little short on details."

So Peter put aside his vague uneasiness and talked about the case. He had a decade of experience in this, in the way Elizabeth should be told about cases: embroidering the funny parts (there were usually funny parts; law enforcement was funnier than most people or cop shows thought) and downplaying the danger. It wasn't lying, exactly, it was just...making sure Elizabeth didn't worry too much about him. Still, he caught Neal's expression once or twice and knew that Neal was sizing up this move, studying it and pulling it apart and would probably bring it up at some very inconvenient later date.

"This Kent guy you're auditing," Neal said, pushing the last of the potatoes around the plate with his fork. "He's a tech dweeb, right? A self-made nerd?"

"Don't underestimate him," Peter replied. "The key words in that sentence are _self_ and _made_. He runs a multi-million-dollar corporation." 

"Yeah, but still basically a dweeb," Neal said.

"Neal, can you tell Elizabeth what a quantum microprocessor is?" Peter asked.

"It's a tool for binary codebreaking," Neal said promptly.

"And that means...?"

Neal flushed slightly.

"He heard that from Jones," Peter told Elizabeth. She smiled at him in the way she had which said he was drastically missing the point.

"It's a different world," Neal said.

"The world of _dweebs_?" Peter drawled.

"High finance. High-tech," Neal replied. "You're gonna have to freak them out, Peter."

"Have you ever known meekness to be a problem of mine?" Peter asked. Neal's eyes flicked, strangely, to his shirt. Elizabeth put one hand on Peter's.

"Sweetie, I think Neal's trying to say there's more to posing as an accountant than having the right credentials," she said.

"It's a suit-and-tie job," Peter answered, confused.

"Very specific suits. Very specific ties," Neal told him, looking triumphant, like he'd already won this bizarre debate. Maybe he had; Peter wasn't quite following the theme of it. "You're the auditor, Peter. You're the man with all the power."

Peter just tilted his head slightly.

"I love it when he does that," Elizabeth stage-whispered to Neal.

"Are we going to approach a point anytime soon?" Peter asked.

"Come on upstairs, sweetie," El said, rising out of her chair and tugging him along.

"Hey, we can digest first," Peter protested, but he didn't even try to stall their progress. Neal gave him a sardonic look, the half-full bottle of wine in one hand and their glasses cradled in the other.

"It's all sex with you," Neal said.

"I'm sorry, who _begged me_ for -- "

"Boys," El warned, already pulling Peter up the stairs.

When they reached the bedroom she pushed him gently down into the chair near the doorway, and Neal slid a glass of wine into his hand as he passed, filling his own glass and El's and setting the bottle on the bedside table. Elizabeth opened the closet doors, then gestured for Neal to take over and came back, settling herself sideways on Peter's lap so she could watch too.

Peter nosed against her ear, dropping a kiss into her hair. "Okay, this is nice."

"Good," she said. "Just remember, when you get the urge to stand up, I get angry when I'm dumped on the floor."

"When I -- " Peter looked at her, brow furrowing. He glanced back at Neal, who was head-and-shoulders deep in the closet. "Neal, what are you doing to my clothing?"

"Weeding it," Neal said absently, not bothering to look around at them.

"It's not that your suits are bad, hon," Elizabeth said, resting her head on his shoulder. "It's just that -- "

"You dress to blend in," Neal finished. "You want to stand out -- " he leaned out of the closet, holding something up with a look of horror on his face. "Oh, Peter. A sweater vest?"

"That was a gift," Peter protested.

"It's button front!"

"Not guilty," Elizabeth said. "His mom gave him that."

"When he was fifteen?" Neal asked, putting it back in the closet. "You need shirts."

"I have shirts," Peter growled.

"Shirts that say 'I'm a powerful man with the ability to ruin your company'," Neal corrected. He emerged again, this time with an armful of dress shirts. "You wear a lot of pink."

"I'm secure in my masculinity," Peter told him.

"And just the tiniest bit gay," Neal replied, setting the shirts on the bed. He shot him a grin and went for the ties.

Peter had learned early on, working with Neal, that Neal could and should be trusted when he was in his element. After all, why keep a con man and ignore the tools he had to offer? If Neal were painting a mural he wouldn't have stood by and offered suggestions, and this was no different. Peter sat quietly, occasionally nuzzling Elizabeth's cheek, and watched Neal study the clothing laid out in front of him.

"It's all about power and where you apply it," Neal said as he worked, and Peter wasn't sure if he was talking to them or to himself. "Always give the mark a little shot at the crack in the armor. Nobody's all-powerful. So Peter Lassen wears expensive shirts, but his ties never quite match, and he's always just a little uncertain when people are _nice_ to him."

"Whose undercover gig is this?" Peter asked. "Yours or mine?"

Neal studied a tie, then hung it back up on the rack in the closet. "You're my partner. Your gig is my gig."

"That's sweet," El said, kissing Peter on the cheek. "I think we should keep him."

"At this point I'm not sure I have a choice," Peter said. Neal began hanging up the shirts he'd rejected. Peter caught a glimpse of the same brilliant, delighted smile that Neal usually tried to hide in the darkness.

"Okay, fashion show," Neal said, picking up one of the shirts and a tie. He held the shirt up, hooking the hanger against his neck so that it rested against his chest, and then brought the tie around. The shirt was one Peter generally saved for special occasions, a little too loud for work -- wide pink stripes, french cuffs, and a higher collar than usual. The tie was a pastel blue diagonal stripe, and he wasn't sure he remembered the last time he'd worn it.

"I'm going to look like an Easter egg threw up on me," he said.

"That's the point," Neal said patiently. He set the clothing aside. "You have presence, Peter. You're not good enough at this to hide that. So you're going to walk in and everyone's going to know you're the boss. But this tie says _Maybe you can get to me anyway._ "

"I've done undercover work for twelve years," Peter pointed out. "I'm not new at this."

"I know that," Neal drawled. "I'm making it easier, that's all. People might not know what they see sometimes but they react to it anyway. Little details matter. They can make a con easier to pull off. I mean, you work with what you've got, but it's better if you've got more."

"Better with more. Life philosophy?" Peter asked.

"Less is only more in architecture and stripteases," Neal said absently, still digging through the ties he'd picked out as, apparently, ugly enough.

"Neal, I want you to go back to where you were telling Peter he has presence," Elizabeth said, grinning.

"Oh, the part where I was complimenting your husband?" Neal asked, turning to her.

"Backhanded compliment," Peter grumbled.

"Why, because you can't hide it? Hey, it's not easy. You walk into a room, you own that room," Neal said. "That's hard to conceal. It's easier to pretend to have all the power than to pretend you don't have it."

Peter frowned, confused by the turn Neal's little lecture had taken. Neal caught it and laughed.

"Peter," he said, shaking his head. "You really don't even see it, do you? Look, I'm a nice guy, I'm a charming guy, but if I want to dominate the room I have to work for it. You just...do. Some people got it. Some people gotta earn it."

"It's okay, sweetie, we won't hold your natural charisma against you," Elizabeth said.

"I'm not following," Peter admitted.

Neal rolled his eyes. "Okay. You know me. You know my MO. You know how I work. Think about that. Now. Watch."

At any given time, Neal radiated confidence, but it was a trickster's confidence, and Peter had been able to see through it years ago, even before Neal got out of prison. It was ladies' man charm, all shiny teeth and eyes and wits. Now Peter watched as Neal stood in the middle of the room and without even closing his eyes seemed to drop that away like a shed skin. It wasn't any single thing, though it was a lot of small things: the stance of his legs, the tilt of his shoulders, the shape of his smile. In its place there was a certain -- weight, a solidity that made him seem somehow more real.

"Wow," Elizabeth said. Neal's smile was all quiet confidence. Peter stared -- Jesus, that was his smile on Neal's face.

Neal held out a hand and turned it over, curling his fingers a little. Elizabeth kissed Peter's cheek and climbed off his lap, taking Neal's hand. Neal wrapped his other arm around her waist and held her there, as if he were about to start slow-dancing her.

"So," he said, and his voice was deeper, too, "come here often?"

Elizabeth burst out laughing. Neal grinned and then he was himself again, slick and casual and loose. He tightened his arm around Elizabeth and spun her, winking at Peter.

"Is that what I look like?" Peter asked, as Neal pulled Elizabeth into a waltz.

"You do it better," Neal told him, dancing effortlessly. "What, you think I'd roll over for anyone less than you, Peter? Even if someone caught me -- not if they weren't you."

He drew to a stop, Elizabeth still laughing and a little breathless in his arms, and bent to kiss her. She raised a hand to thread it through his hair. They were so beautiful and so _good_ together that Peter forgot about Neal's little demonstration, forgot about the ugly ties and the loud shirts and just sat there, watching.

"I like special, rare things," Neal said, when Elizabeth was done kissing him. "One-of-a-kind sort of things."

"I think we've been collected," Elizabeth said. Peter got out of the chair and walked across to where they stood, drawing Neal's face around and kissing him.

"Now, about that rolling over," he said, and Neal laughed into his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
>  **[Necklace with pendant Eros](http://www.mfa.org/collections/object/necklace-with-pendant-eros-186441)** , the inspiration for Neal's birthday gift to Kate.  
> Enright's, the cop bar frequented by the White Collar crowd and Peter's contacts with the NYPD, is named after **[Richard Enright](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_E._Enright)** , one of the NYPD's early police commissioners.


	13. Chapter 13

The next morning, Peter put on the shirt that made his skin look warm and the tie that made his shirt look tacky, asking Neal which knot to tie. He gave Neal his cufflinks to fasten and then handed his jacket over so that Neal could help him into it; Neal wasn't even sure he knew he did it. Peter just casually passed them to Neal like it was Neal's job.

Elizabeth was already gone, and he should have been at the FBI's offices fifteen minutes ago, but he wanted to see his handiwork: the shirt and tie Neal had picked out the night before, the erect line of Peter's back and the tight brush of his collar against his throat. Peter Lassen was a work of art, and Peter might be playing Lassen but Neal felt as if he'd had a part in sculpting him.

And if Neal teased Peter a little bit about how he could have been a millionaire accountant, with a house in the Hamptons and a cushy job (that didn't involve guns, or late-night stakeouts, or brilliant CIs), well, that was just to see if he was in character. Peter took it with his usual quiet grin -- and then neatly destroyed Neal.

"Company booked me in a suite at a four-star hotel," Peter said.

Neal raised his eyebrows, only a little sarcastic when he answered, "Impressive."

Peter, adjusting his tie, glanced at him in the mirror before he turned around. "Yeah. Almost as impressive as your getting Kate's flight-recorder data."

Neal was completely unprepared for that, and he'd never been all that good at lying to Peter anyway. He just stared, trying to school his features into innocence.

"That's right, Sara told me," Peter said. Neal mentally cursed Sara Ellis from here to Jersey.

It wasn't fair of Peter to force his hand that way, and it wasn't fair to force Mozzie to work with Diana; Neal had acquired the flight-recorder data and had it dropped to Sara and recovered it all on his own, without using any of the Bureau's resources, and Mozzie was working his ass off trying to wring every last drop of information out of it. If anyone was going to get that information it ought to be Peter himself.

So Neal kept quiet, and agreed to arrange a meet between Mozzie and Diana that morning (of course, that was why Peter had sprung it on him, so they had no time to prepare), and then Neal Caffrey set up a con.

"Mozzie," he said, after checking in with Diana at the office that morning. "I need you to help me run a short game on Peter."

"Conning your Suit? I'm impressed," Mozzie said. "What's the plan?"

"I can't get into details. Diana thinks I'm setting up a meet between you and her, so we don't have a lot of time. Today at eleven, can you be outside Federal Plaza?"

"Sure," Mozzie said. "Wait, you want me to meet with Lady Suit?"

" _She has a name_ ," Neal said, and didn't bother to give Mozzie time to argue before he continued. "Peter wants you to meet with her. It's about Kate. All you need to know for now is that we want to get what they have and give away as little as possible. You'll see what I mean when we meet. I want you to dial Mozzie up to eleven, can you do that? Paranoia, cloak and dagger, the works."

"With pleasure," Moz said. "I will be so Mozzie your jaw will drop. Can I have histrionics?"

"As long as you eventually do everything she tells you to do, and make sure your first meeting is at my place, you can have a seizure for all I care," Neal said, and hung up.

Mozzie was beautiful at the meet. There were moments in their partnership, patchwork and sometimes frustrating as it might be, where Neal wanted to kiss him purely for his brilliance. Mozzie was, at the best of times, a little neurotic; when he was laying it on thick he could put anyone's teeth on edge. Neal thought his plan to write a sonnet telling Diana where to meet was a particularly nice touch.

"I know!" Mozzie said on the phone, later that day, when Diana wasn't breathing down his neck quite so hard. "I'm tempted to write the sonnet just to see if I could do it. Something Italian."

"Not French?"

"French sonnets are for lovers. Italian sonnets are for seducers."

"That's beautiful, Moz, really. I think I just shed a tear," Neal said. The blood was singing in his veins; this was a small, stupid, and petty con, and Diana wasn't even their mark. Peter was their mark -- Diana was just the mark they had to conquer to get to Peter. Still, even a small and petty con made him feel good, made him long for the old days a little.

"What's our next step?" Mozzie asked.

"You're meeting up with her?"

"Yeah, tomorrow morning. What's the game plan?"

"Give her the standard stuff on Fowler. Try to get out of giving her any of the actual recorder data."

"So that's why you were so focused on Fowler at the meet."

"I want Diana and Peter chasing Fowler, not us," Neal told him. "Stall her and then give up Fowler's information. Get what you can from her but don't work it too hard."

"I assume you have a plan beyond 'don't work it too hard'," Mozzie drawled.

"I'm arranging a diversion. Probably not a long one, so I want you to snoop fast once it hits," Neal said. "You on form?"

"I'm like Muhammad Ali in his prime," Mozzie announced. "Only short, white, and out of shape."

"Attaboy, Moz," Neal said, grinning, and hung up. He scrolled through his contacts and found June's personal number.

"Neal," June answered, sounding pleased. "To what do I owe this pleasure in the middle of the day?"

"June, are you home tomorrow morning?" Neal asked.

"Yes, I think so. Why?"

"How would you like to run a five-minute con?" Neal asked.

"Oh my darling boy," June laughed. "What did you have in mind?"

"Diana's coming over to talk to Mozzie. I need you to give them fifteen minutes alone together and then distract her."

"What's my angle?" June asked.

"Getting her away from Mozzie so he can look in her files. Out the door if you can, but don't worry too much if you can't. He's fast."

"As I have reason to know. Oh! Peter just gave me your new custody paperwork, that's a good diversion, isn't it?"

Neal grinned. "Bureaucracy at work. That's perfect. Can you pull off slightly confused and devastatingly good-looking? I mean, I know you can manage the second."

"Mmhm," June sounded amused. "I think so, yes. Oh, this is exciting, I haven't pulled a quick-and-dirty con in years."

"Play your cards right, sweetheart, and I'll make you part of my crew," Neal said, laughing. "Thank you, June."

"My pleasure, Neal," she said, and hung up. Neal sat back, beaming.

"What're you so excited about?" Jones asked, as he passed Neal's desk.

"You know what?" Neal asked, not bothering to wipe the smile off his face. "Jones, I love my work."

***

That afternoon, Neal got a text message from Peter Lassen's phone.

_5pm, 45th Floor._

How...pragmatic and yet vaguely pornographic. Neal grinned.

Like a good con man, New York had layers. The 45th floor of a four-star hotel was one, of course, all shine and wealth and elegance, but the loading dock of the same four-star hotel was gritty and surrounded by dumpsters and had a cranky man in an ill-fitting uniform sitting inside it. Neal walked up the slightly grimy staircase to the dock door and stepped inside, taking his hat off and beaming at him.

"Hi there," he said, offering a hand. "George Wheeler."

"Delivery?" the man asked, bored.

"You could say that," Neal replied. The man looked up and took in his tight suit, his face, his hair.

"Lobby's around that way," he said, pointing back at the way Neal had just come.

"Aw, come on man," Neal said, resting both arms on the counter of the desk and letting one hand drape over, a twenty between his fingers. "You can let me in off the books, right?"

The guard glanced at the cash. "You working?" he asked.

Bingo. Every hotel security guard and maid and lobby attendant, and every escort in town, knew what that meant.

"My client likes discreet," Neal said. "Peter L., forty-fifth floor?"

The guard checked a computer screen, then tugged the twenty out of Neal's fingers.

"Service elevator's down and to the right," he said. Neal doffed his hat and walked on.

He toyed with telling Peter about it -- well, not telling him, just letting enough slip that Peter would ask -- but they were on the job here and Neal could respect that. Undercover work wasn't easy. No reason to throw Peter off his game this early, especially since Peter had to live here for the next week and was the kind of guy to fret about what the maids and valets thought of him. He probably made his bed in the mornings. So Neal went up and gave his report like a good little consultant, and only teased Peter a little.

"You were right about the tie, by the way," Peter said, once they'd finished plotting to get Neal into the company so he could snoop around.

"Yeah?" Neal asked, leaning back on the couch. Man, this was a nice suite. Wasted on Peter, but then Peter had other qualities that made up for his puritan work ethic. "How so?"

"You should have seen Kent," Peter told him, gesturing at his own shirt. "Yellow plaid."

" _No_ ," Neal said, horrified and delighted.

"He looked like a tablecloth was attacking him."

Neal laughed. "You should listen to me when I tell you about clothing."

Peter made a noncommittal noise. "I like my shirts just fine, thank you."

"Yeah, who'd get any work done if you started dressing to impress?" Neal asked, and Peter gave him a strange look. "What?"

"Nothing," Peter said, shaking his head. "I'll get on the phone to Jones, have him set up an alias for you, and then talk to Kent. You got a name you want?"

"I have an alias that'll work. Jones can look it over," Neal said. "George Danbury."

"Yeah, we have that one on file," Peter said. "Should I even ask if you have current ID for it?"

"Peter! I'm an upstanding -- "

"Just...stop right there," Peter sighed, holding up a hand. "Go, get ready for an interview in the morning."

"Studying to do," Neal agreed, standing up. he looked down at Peter, who was sorting the printouts Jones had sent along with him. "I could come back this evening."

Peter frowned, looking up at him.

"You know. Big bed, nice suite..."

"Tracking anklet," Peter muttered.

"Right. Well, Mr. Danbury will see you tomorrow, Mr. Lassen. CPA," Neal added with a grin, and let his hand drift across Peter's shoulders as he walked to the door.

Downstairs, on his way back out through the loading dock, he caught the guard's eye and mouthed _animal_ at him. This time the guard actually grinned.

After all, it wasn't technically a lie.

***

Elizabeth was expecting a quiet if perhaps somewhat lonely evening ahead of her, with Peter off playing dress-up. No matter how long they'd been married, or how dangerous she knew undercover work could be, it always struck her as funny that her husband spent a good half of his time at work pretending to be someone else. She didn't enjoy it when he was off on assignment, and she hadn't enjoyed it when he'd had to travel so much, chasing Neal across the country and then consulting on cases in other field offices once he'd established a name for himself, but she'd grown used to it. Besides, these days, it was relatively rare -- usually she was the one traveling, or out late at events.

She was considering treating herself to dinner somewhere when she heard the unmistakable sound of lockpicks in the door, which could only mean Neal. When he opened the door to find her standing there, arms crossed, he had the decency to look sheepish.

"We're going to get you a key," she told him, as he pocketed the picks. "It's not good for the locks."

"Old habits," he said, bending to receive his customary kiss on the forehead. She bestowed it only a little grudgingly.

"Are you setting off alarms right now?"

"Nope!" he pulled up his pants leg, showing off his lack of tracking anklet. "They put me on a GPS, but the Marshals aren't monitoring it. I told Hughes that Peter asked me to check up on you."

"Did he?"

"No, but I thought you might like some company," he said, flashing that trust-me-and-give-me-your-money smile he did so well. Peter was the only one who never fell for it; even when she knew what it was, it still made her feel special. It didn't, however, make her feel like leaving Neal alone with her purse.

"Would you like dinner?" she asked, looping her arms loosely around his shoulders as he pulled her against him, nuzzling her hair.

"I was thinking more like dessert," he said, and bent for a genuine kiss. "If you're free."

"Hm. What brought this on?" she asked. He tensed; just slightly, but she could feel it.

"We don't have to," he said, pulling back just a little.

"That wasn't what I asked," she reminded him, playing with the soft curly hair at the nape of his neck. Getting a little long; he should get it cut soon.

"I never get you all to myself," he said, sounding a little like a spoiled child. She laughed. "What?"

"Well, as reasons go, you couldn't come up with one more flattering," she said, and a real smile broke over his face.

"I don't want you to think everything's about Peter," he said. "It isn't."

"Baby, I knew that before you two did," she said, while Neal -- apparently encouraged -- kissed her jaw, just below her ear. "Oh, you're good at that."

"Sleeping with your husband's partner while he's away," he murmured in her ear. "For shame, Mrs. Burke."

"Sleeping with your partner's wife," she replied, as he walked her backwards towards the stairs. "What _will_ he do when he finds out. He might handcuff you."

"I live in hope," Neal laughed, letting go of her so she could take his hand and pull him along up to the bedroom. "Why, do you want to...?"

She shook her head, already working on his tie. "That's your thing, you boys -- oh -- " she added, as he ran warm hands up under her shirt. "And I love to see it, but if this is my treat -- "

"It is," he assured her, undoing her bra one-handed. He was a pickpocket, after all.

"I want something sweet," she said, pushing his shirt off his shoulders. "Well. Maybe with a little bite."

They undressed with probably more speed than grace, Neal skimming her clothes off her and getting caught for a moment in his undershirt when he kept trying to kiss her while she was pulling it over his head. She laughed and smoothed his hair when he emerged, but he just wrapped both arms around her and lifted her up, falling back on the bed with her on top of him. She rolled, tugging him over, fruitless for a second before he got with the program and settled on top of her, kissing his way down her breasts. He bit gently around one nipple and she moaned.

"Tell me what you want," he said, resting his chin on her stomach, gazing up at her. She could feel the pulse in his throat, against her skin. She could feel his fingers, too, roaming up her leg and inside her, thumb rubbing gently at her clit. "Anything you want."

She tugged on his hair. "Come up here."

"What, no foreplay?" he asked, laughing, but he slid up her body and kissed her, his cock trailing along her thigh. Neal was all nerve endings sometimes, incredibly responsive to touch, and without Peter's steadying presence he seemed uncertain -- and then he pressed his face to her throat, and oh, now she understood. That was his surrender to Peter, part of the wordless pact they had, and it was _amazing_. All of Neal's power, his skill and intelligence and grace, offered up freely.

"Here, here," she said, pulling him up into a kiss, cradling him against her body. "Neal -- fuck -- "

"Yeah," he agreed, sliding into her, hips a little jerky and eyes closed, mouth open. "Elizabeth, that's good, you're so..." he moaned, and apparently lost his train of thought, rocking against and inside her, like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. For Neal, whose focus could be extreme and sometimes a little worrying, perhaps she was.

She bucked against him, trying to get him to move faster, push harder, but Neal just kept kissing her, languid -- slow and gentle. And she felt this was, perhaps, wasting the moment a little.

"More," she said, kissing him roughly, and he jerked hard against her for a moment but then stopped and moved slower again -- "Neal, I'm not going to break."

"I don't -- " he said, and then shuddered.

"You can be rough," she whispered against his temple, right in his ear. He tensed. "It's okay. I want it. Think about Peter," she tried, and his head snapped up.

"What?" he asked. "But -- "

"Not like that," she said, and rolled her hips a little, and he moaned. "Peter's rough sometimes. You think he would be, if I didn't enjoy it?"

Neal looked at her for a long moment, breathing fast, and then she saw something click. He groaned low and dropped his head to her throat and his whole body pushed, hard, all that beautiful muscle uncoiling when Elizabeth arched her back. She felt him let go, start taking what he wanted, raw and harsh and just what she wanted from him, too: to see him give it up, that last little vestige of control, of mistrust that she would lie to him.

He was suddenly relentless, frantic and greedy, biting her shoulder, hands probably leaving bruises on her thighs. He raised one hand and cupped her breast, thumb scraping across her nipple and she was so -- close --

When she came she might have screamed, she wasn't sure; Neal was still thrusting into her, breath ragged when he wasn't saying _El, El, El --_ and she raked her fingernails down his chest, which made him go silent and tense and still as he came.

All she could hear was their breathing for a brief second, and then Neal's hips pushed again and he collapsed against her, sweating, mouthing hungrily at the bite he'd left.

"See?" she said softly, after a minute, stroking his hair. He grunted and raised his head for another gentle kiss, almost chaste. Damn.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, sliding away from her, eyes opening and tracking down to the narrow reddening bruise on her skin. She sighed.

"If you were hurting me, I'd tell you," she said, smoothing her palm over the scratch marks on his chest.

"I'm just..." he closed his eyes again. "I worry."

"Because you're big and strong and I'm not?" she asked, a little sarcasm in her voice. He winced, nodding.

"It's easier with Peter," he murmured. "He's really strong."

"Neal," she said. "I trust you. Tell you what," she added, pushing herself up on one elbow and leaning over him. He looked up at her. "I promise, if you hurt me, I'll tell you. And I promise, if I want something from you, I'll tell you."

He nodded slowly.

"But you have to promise that if I say what I want, you'll believe me," she said. "You can say no, but it has to be because you don't want to do it. Not because you're afraid I'm lying. Okay?"

"I'm not used to being asked. Not for that," he said. He looked hesitant.

"What is it?"

"I...Kate never asked," he said. "Maybe I didn't give her the chance. I don't know. And she wasn't the first."

"Trust me," she repeated. "I know you think you're supposed to protect the whole world, Neal, but I can protect myself. Besides," she said, "it was good, wasn't it?"

He exhaled, slowly, and gave her one of his bright grins. "Yeah. Yeah, that was -- really great."

"Good." She lay back, stretching. "How long can you stay?"

"Mm. Not long. I have a dinner tonight, and a bunch of spy-versus-spy after that," he said. "I'd bring you along as my date but trust me, you would hate it. Man, I'm glad I don't work in an office."

"Well, technically, you do," she said.

"Nah, that's just where we go when the interesting stuff's not happening." He waved a hand. "These guys are...their big thrill in life is running up a restaurant tab and then flipping for who has to pay for it."

"Some people would say that getting your kicks going undercover and being shot at is probably even less sane," she said. Her hand drifted to the raised white scar on his shoulder where that man they'd been chasing had grazed him -- over a year ago, now.

"I don't like being shot at," he agreed. "But you have to admit it keeps life interesting."

"Hm. Try not to make life too interesting," she replied. "Peter and I don't want to lose you, you know."

"I do my best," he said, and kissed her one more time before climbing over her, out of the bed. "I gotta go."

"I know," she sighed. "Will you see Peter tonight?"

"Yeah, probably not till late."

"Give him my love," she said, and he looked over at her and smiled.

"Like he needs reminding," he said.

***

Peter fully understood that he probably sounded like an idiot, talking to a photograph, but at least it was keeping him awake.

It was too late to call Elizabeth, really; she put up with enough without maudlin caffeinated calls from her husband at midnight. Neal's dinner was at nine, and he had to have time to stake out the office as well. Peter didn't expect he'd get to bed much before two in the morning.

Besides, it was soothing, talking to El, even if she wasn't really there. Especially in the early days of their marriage, when they both had crazy schedules and sometimes didn't see each other until late, they'd lie in bed and take the day apart together, rambling at each other until they both fell asleep. With all the insecurity of youth, he'd worried about their sex life, but there were nights he vastly preferred to listen to her talk as he dozed, or hold her while he talked about Bureau politics and Caffrey's latest audacity.

Caffrey. God, even then Neal had been in their bed. And Neal was -- something else, strange and new, much-desired, but Peter and Elizabeth had ten years together. There were some things you had to build over time, and no amount of love or desperation could replace that. It might come, in time, but Peter's thoughts shied away from the future when it came to Neal. There were too many variables, and too many close calls in Neal's recent past to bank on a future just yet.

"Room service!" Neal's voice called from the entryway. Cute.

Peter let him in, tolerated his gentle mocking, and studied the dossier Neal brought with interest. Neal seemed sulky, but Peter figured he was probably tired; he'd worked all day (for a given value of work) and then had to con his coworkers all night, stake out an office, pull files from the FBI, and sneak into the hotel.

"So how did you get in, anyway?" Peter asked, carrying his dinner to the coffee table and settling down across from Neal.

"You sure you want to know?" Neal asked.

"Am I going to have to put you back in prison if you tell me?"

"I bribed a guard," Neal said, and then switched subjects with bizarre speed. "You know what the room service guy thought I was doing here, right?"

Peter frowned at him. "What?"

"The guy who just brought you the steak. He saw me. What do you think he thought I was doing here?"

Peter glanced over his shoulder at the doorway. "I don't know. I doubt he cares. You know normal people, people who don't work for the FBI or run cons their whole life, they don't notice things the way we do."

Neal gave him a grin. "He thought I was the evening's entertainment."

Peter choked on a bite of steak, thumping his chest with his fist. "What?"

"Well-dressed pretty man like me, rich guy like you..." Neal shrugged.

"He didn't," Peter said, horrified.

"Trust me, compared to what they've seen, this doesn't raise an eyebrow," Neal drawled.

"He probably just thought we were having a late business meeting!"

"At half past midnight? In your bathrobe?" Neal asked. Peter put his fork down.

"Neal, did you purposefully give the impression to the hotel staff that you were my..." Peter trailed off, gesturing vaguely.

"Escort? Hey, it's a good cover," Neal said. He looked unperturbed by it.

"Not for me!"

"What, are you afraid the random hotel staff are going to think you're gay?" Neal asked.

"It's not the -- " Peter ran a hand over his face. "Look, I don't care if some stranger thinks I'm gay. I happen to be fucking a man as well as my wife, so it's not like the estimation is completely incorrect. I'd rather they not think I'm hiring prostitutes."

"Dirty talk! Peter, I didn't know you had it in you," Neal said, getting up to join him on the couch. He stole a spear of asparagus off Peter's plate and took a bite, grinning at him. "Damage is already done. No sense in worrying about it now."

Peter, however, had caught the flash of bare wrist on his left arm. "Where's your GPS?"

"Huh?" Neal looked at his wrist, where the watch should be, all exaggerated innocence. "Must have left it at the Bureau when I pulled the file. I'll grab it tomorrow before work."

"Neal...." Peter shook his head.

"I'm off the leash," Neal said. "Gonna cuff me?"

"You'd enjoy that," Peter pointed out. Neal rested his chin on Peter's shoulder.

"I saw Elizabeth this afternoon," he said. Peter turned his head slightly. "She said to send her love. You know, she and I don't get enough alone time."

"What, you want to kick me out of my bed now?" Peter asked with a grin.

"Well, her husband was away, a woman has needs...."

"Yeah, yeah, rub it in," Peter muttered. Neal twitched his chin a little; when Peter looked back, Neal seemed almost sad.

"You really aren't enjoying this, are you?" Neal asked. "You're not jealous about me and Elizabeth. You're frustrated you have to be here."

Peter looked down at his food. "I miss my wife," he said. "I miss my home, I miss my dog. You," he said affectionately, "I can't seem to get rid of. Frankly, I don't know how you find the energy. Full day's work, _alone time_ with Elizabeth, big dinner, stakeout, research. How are you not exhausted?"

He felt Neal shift, and then the familiar sensation of Neal's face pressed into the crook of his throat. There it was; push Neal hard enough and he'd trip and show some real damn emotion once in a while. It would be gratifying, if it wasn't so sad sometimes, that Neal had to be told to let go even when he was barely holding on.

"You are exhausted," Peter corrected himself, raising a hand to rub Neal's scalp, just above the hairline. Neal exhaled hard, a sigh of relief. "Okay. I get it. Off the leash. You could stay here tonight and nobody would know."

Neal nodded against his skin; one hand drifted across Peter's thigh, and Peter caught it gently.

"There's some pajamas in my suitcase," he said. "Go."

"I could -- "

"Neal, was I asking your opinion?"

He could feel Neal smile against his skin, a quick kiss at the base of his throat. Neal left his hat on the table and got up, and Peter listened to his footsteps up the spiral staircase until they were deadened by the carpet in the bedroom loft. He finished his steak at his leisure, set the plate back on the room-service cart, put it near the door, and shed the bathrobe before climbing the stairs himself.

Neal was out cold, blankets thrown off, Peter's spare pajama pants riding low on his hips. When Peter climbed into bed he muttered something half-consciously, eyes sliding open.

"You want to sleep?" Peter asked. Neal shook his head, reaching for him. "Ah -- don't even," Peter said, catching his wrists. He pulled them up over Neal's head, pinning him down and kissing him. He kissed hard, maybe a little harder than he meant to, but Neal was still half-asleep and he gave easily.

"Is this what you'd do?" Neal asked, words running together a little. Peter made an inquisitive noise. "If you were paying for me?"

Peter leaned back a little. Hard to know what approach to take in situations like this, but that was why Neal had always been so intriguing.

"I couldn't afford you," he said finally, and then, "No games tonight, Neal."

"But I want..." Neal trailed off, writhing a little. Peter put a hand on his shoulder and he stilled.

"Stay there," Peter said, and nuzzled his throat, mouthing along the lines where his muscles met. "What's this?" he asked, when he caught the red streaks down the side of Neal's chest.

"That's your wife," Neal said, twisting a little. "You should see what I did to her -- "

"I hope to," Peter replied. He pressed his face into Neal's stomach and rested there for a minute, inhaling warm skin and -- perhaps only his imagination -- the smell of Elizabeth on Neal's body.

Fifteen years ago, Neal would have been just his type. Well, he was Peter's type now, but back then a guy like him would also have been completely out of Peter's league. Of course, fifteen years ago Neal was a weedy teenager breaking out of a juvie boot camp, a resourceful kid who'd gone over the fence and hiked sixty miles out of the wilderness to hitch a ride to New York, while Peter was studying theoretical mathematics and shyly hunching over his drink at the gay bars on Friday nights or trying, clumsily, to talk to girls at clubs. Now he had Elizabeth, who loved him and didn't care that he couldn't flirt, and Neal, who wanted to pretend to be his toy, who let him handcuff him and who adored Elizabeth. It was just overwhelming sometimes, this gift. 

Neal twitched impatiently and Peter smiled against his skin, ignoring Neal's hands trying to tug him up. Instead he moved lower, pulling down Neal's pajamas and wrapping his hand around the base of Neal's cock.

"Peter," Neal moaned, head tipped back, but there was surprise in his voice as well as arousal. Peter licked his lips and then ran his tongue across the head of Neal's cock, lightly, looking up to gauge his reaction. Of all the things they'd done, they hadn't done this -- Neal too wary of the power balance between them, Peter admittedly a little insecure about his skills. Neal's left arm was still thrown over his head, but his right hand hovered in the air as if he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch. He took Neal's wrist and pulled it down to the side of his face, then bent and slid his mouth around just the tip of Neal's cock, sucking gently. Neal's hips pushed up, an easy roll, and Peter smiled. Still not quite fully awake, maybe, though well awake enough to grip Peter's hair and tug a little as Peter took him deeper.

Neal moaned again. "Peter -- oh, that's -- " he said, as Peter sucked, encouraged by the broken sounds Neal was making. Peter hummed a little. Neal whimpered.

"Hold still for me," he ordered, pulling back, and Neal relaxed a fraction. "Good. Feels okay?"

"Mmhm," Neal said, and then a grin lit up his face. His thumb rubbed the shell of Peter's ear. "Do that again."

Peter concentrated, hard, trying to remember half a dozen things at once, no teeth and what to do with his tongue and how to keep from choking if he tried to --

He coughed, pulled back, shot Neal an apologetic look. Neal's eyes were half-closed, pupils wide, a flush high on his cheeks. Peter moved up his body, wondering if Neal was even still really awake, and Neal shifted subtly to accommodate them, one hand drifting over Peter's stomach to stroke him clumsily, stroke them both together.

"I'll get better at that," Peter promised.

"You're perfect," Neal slurred, and yeah, he was going to fade out from exhaustion unless -- "Perfect, oh..."

Neal came without much fuss, without any warning, and Peter groaned and pushed into his hand a few more times, losing the rhythm they'd been building, coming with a muffled grunt against Neal's skin. He rolled away, catching his breath. When he looked over at Neal he was completely out, body lax, mumbling something occasionally but obviously already well over into sleep.

Peter went to the bathroom, ran some cold water into his hands and rubbed his face, and then with a silent, guilty apology to the cleaning staff, wet a washcloth and cleaned himself and Neal up. When he climbed into the bed, Neal shifted again, but he calmed when Peter touched his arm, curling a hand around his shoulder. Peter pulled the blankets over them, trying to sleep, but the caffeine was still pinging through his bloodstream, and his concerns about Neal rolled back over him.

Well, if it was insane to talk to a photograph of his wife, it had to be at least a little less insane to talk to his sleeping boyfriend.

"We work hard," Peter said softly, considering how to phrase this, not so much for Neal as for himself. "I know you know this is a good life, but I don't think you get why. I wish..." he broke off as Neal snorted and burrowed deeper into the pillow. "I wish you wanted easier things, things that don't ask so much risk from you. You do good work, now. Don't think I don't appreciate the sacrifice. Maybe I should give you a better reward, but this is the best I got, Neal."

Neal answered with a snore. Peter smiled and relaxed, willing himself to sleep. He must have drifted off eventually, though it felt fitful and brief; at one point he opened his eyes to dim light, awakened by soft sounds of movement. He turned his head and saw Neal, pulling a shirt on.

"What time is it?" he asked groggily, flailing for a clock.

"Almost seven. I gotta go, I have to get back to June's and change and pick up my GPS before work," Neal said. "Go back to sleep."

"Mmf. Had something to tell you," Peter said, groping mentally for what it had been. Something about work.

"It'll keep." Neal sat on the bed and bent over, kissing his throat. Peter arched into it a little and Neal laughed. "Last night was...we should try that again sometime," he said. "You guys should think about silk sheets."

"Already on it," Peter mumbled.

"I'll remind you later that you said that. Sleep," Neal repeated, and stood up, disappearing down the stairs. Peter rolled over again and into the still-warm sheets, dropping back down into deeper slumber.

***

Neal played off his tiredness the next day as a hangover from dinner, which he thought everyone but Jessica probably bought. Trent was suffering too; Andrew, the only one in the office who seemed to have a real sense of humor, took delight in tweaking them both all day long. Neal would have been amused, even appreciative of Andrew's turn for mischief, if he wasn't so damn exhausted.

Things were moving fast, too -- by that afternoon he'd been held at gunpoint, hauled Peter back to the FBI to deal with Jessica and her very big gun, heard from Mozzie that Diana knew about the music box and might have it in her possession, and plotted a totally legal but still pretty perilous mission to break into the CEO's office and rig a remote scanner onto his shredder. He had never been so happy to leave his marketing-genius alias behind at five-thirty, go home, and collapse into his own bed. Peter might claim he worked harder, and he certainly had to put in more effort to achieve legally what Neal could achieve illegally with ease, but this case was wearing on Neal.

He couldn't sleep.

He groaned and sat up, leaning into a shaft of early-evening sunset light. There were art markers in a drawer on his bedside table, and he grabbed a few of them and pulled out a sheet of artist's vellum, propping it on a hardback book from the table. He uncapped a black marker with his teeth and held the cap between his lips, gnawing absently on the edge of it as he worked ink into the vellum, hoping it would let his mind wander.

Everything kept circling back, though, to the following day: the plans for the break-in, whether Peter had managed to coax Kent into saying the magic words that they could re-play to get into his office, wondering if Mozzie had made any headway finding out what Diana's relationship to the music box was. Wondering how Jessica was doing with the knowledge that the following day she'd be put into Witness Protection. Wondering where Clive was, their last spectacular Witness Protection failure.

The end result wasn't pleasing, either mentally or artistically; the drawing looked like a hack-handed comic book character, a man in a suit with harsh black outlines and streaky colors, and he didn't have his fine-point markers with which to do a face. He kept working on it until he'd pretty much ruined it, then shoved it back into the drawer with the markers and flopped back in the bed. The light was gone, but sleep was a long time in coming. When it did, it was fitful.

He woke cranky and impatient, on edge, and was in very little mood that day to tolerate Peter's bookish morality. He tried, because it seemed important to Peter, but there were days in which the old youthful arrogance of his pre-prison life said, _You could really mess this place up if you wanted to._ Peter picked a bad day to give him a lecture on revenge, and Neal knew he took it with ill grace, but Peter wasn't the one, after all, who had spent fifteen years studying the art of the grift so that he could break into Kent's office. Neal did that; if the FBI wanted to use him they could damn well acknowledge that no upstanding citizen had the skills he had. He felt, obscurely, that by the code of the con, if Jessica wanted to exact revenge on Kent, she should be allowed to.

Right up until it was Peter in the crossfire of that revenge, until it was Peter as well as Kent who was being slowly poisoned by the digitalis Jessica had slipped into his Armagnac.

Suddenly nothing else mattered -- not morality, not revenge, not who was a con or who was an agent. His whole world narrowed beautifully down to a single focus. Find Peter, save Peter. No hesitation, no rules, and nothing short of a bullet would have stopped Neal from getting to Peter -- possibly not even that. Peter was all that mattered.

Peter, who was lying limp and unconscious on the floor of Kent's office, and suddenly so fucking heavy. Neal hoped the security guard had called 911, because if they got down to ground level only for Peter to die in some godforsaken elevator --

"Kent," Peter said, over Neal's babbling that he'd be fine, that he had to stay with him. Neal stared at him for a split second, then shook his head.

"No, Peter, we don't have time," he insisted. What the hell was taking the elevator so long?

"We can't leave him behind," Peter mumbled, eyes shifting in his face, eyes that were tracking nothing, not Neal or the lights of the hallway. Blind. The clock in Neal's head, the clock counting down the minutes to death, ticked faster.

"You are _dying_ , Peter," Neal insisted, because he wasn't going to leave Peter to die in an elevator lobby while he went back for a scumbag murderer in an ugly shirt.

"We don't leave anyone behind," Peter insisted, and he might be blind but he was trying to see Neal, and Neal realized what Peter meant: choose to look after his own interests, or choose to do the right thing.

Stay with Peter and be a murderer by proxy, or go back for Kent and be a good man.

"Son of a bitch," Neal muttered as he ran back and hauled Kent none too gently out to the elevators. Peter was unconscious and why the _fuck_ wasn't the elevator here?

Then it dinged, a normal little sound, and two cops burst through the sliding doors. Neal found himself staring down the barrel of a gun. He held up his hands slowly. Behind the cops were EMTs, and the most important thing was to get Peter on a gurney and not get shot in the process. Though if he did get shot, if that meant Peter survived...

"Digitalis," Neal blurted, as one of the cops hauled him up and away from the -- God, the bodies, please let them not be bodies -- and the EMTs went to work. "They were poisoned. It's digitalis," he said, struggling to be heard over the police officer telling him to step back, telling him to calm down. "You don't understand, they were poisoned!"

The rest of it was a blur. The interminable ride down to ground level, the iron grip of the cop's hand on his arm, one of the EMTs abandoning Peter -- _abandoning Peter_ \-- to shine a light in Neal's eyes, ask him if he was all right, if he'd ingested any of the poison. Neal kept shaking his head and insisting they had to be all right, he wasn't hurt, please, just make sure Peter was all right. One of them was radioing for something from backup on the ground floor, and when they left the elevator the biggest needle Neal had seen in a long time was jammed into Peter's chest.

But then Peter's eyes opened, and everything was okay.

They let Neal ride to the hospital in the ambulance with them, but only because Peter flashed his badge and insisted on it. Neal suspected the EMTs just didn't want to waste any time in argument. He tried to call Elizabeth, but she wasn't picking up; a few seconds later Diana texted him to say she'd called Elizabeth already, and Neal needed to stay in Emergency reception to meet her there. He watched them wheel Peter through a secure door and down a hallway, and then he stood staring at the door for about ten minutes, trying to get his breathing under control. Peter had been lucid, he had looked up at Neal and seen him. Peter would be fine.

_Believe the con, Caffrey._

By the time Elizabeth arrived, in a pair of jeans and what he recognized as a pajama top, he'd calmed down enough to be useful at least in reassuring her Peter would be okay. She held onto him and trembled, and he was grateful for her, for someone who needed him even momentarily. He didn't even notice Jones and Diana walk in; didn't notice them go to the reception window, until Jones cleared his throat and Neal looked up, releasing Elizabeth.

"They say he's stable," Diana said, touching Elizabeth's arm. "You can go inside if you have an escort. I'll take you in."

"Thank you," Elizabeth said, but Neal felt her hand squeeze his. "Can Neal -- "

"Just family." Diana gave Neal an apologetic look.

"We should talk," Jones said quietly to Neal. "Before someone arrests you."

"Arrests -- " Elizabeth began, looking outraged.

"Mrs. Burke, I got this," Jones said. "We got it."

"Come on," Diana urged, and Neal pulled Elizabeth close, briefly.

"It's fine, I've seen him already," he whispered in her ear. "I'll sneak in later. Go on."

Jones took him up to the hospital cafeteria, bought him a really awful cup of coffee, and sat them down at a table with his notebook in front of him.

"You okay?" he asked, while Neal sipped the awful coffee. Neal nodded. "You want to take me through it?"

"Can I ask why someone wants me arrested?" Neal said.

"We're working it out. LEOs think you were involved because you were there. I need to be able to tell the NYPD how you knew they'd been poisoned and how you got your ass to a secure floor," Jones said. Neal smiled a little.

"Jessica was out for revenge," he said, and the whole story poured out -- how she'd described the symptoms, how he'd stupidly showed her the recorder that could give her access to Kent's office, how he'd found it in her purse and taken off to save Peter without a second thought. He recounted his shouted conversation with the security guard as best he could, while Jones took copious notes, and then how he'd made it into the elevator and pulled the panel out to hardware-hack it.

"Wait, wait," Jones said suddenly, as Neal was explaining the way he'd tugged a wire loose and sparked a bypass of the security system. "So you hotwired an elevator?"

"No, the theory's totally different," Neal said. "With a car you're jump-starting the engine using electrical current. With the elevator, I was using the wire to go around the security panel. It's the difference between picking a lock and rebuilding a door so that the lock is irrelevant."

Jones gave him a narrow look. "But basically, you hotwired an elevator."

Neal rubbed his forehead. "Okay, basically."

"That's pretty awesome," Jones said.

"Is it?" Neal asked wearily.

"Yeah, very. Then what?"

"When it opened on the top floor, I found Peter on the floor in Kent's office and Kent in one of the chairs. I pulled Peter out to the elevators and he made me go back for Kent."

"He made you?" Jones asked.

"Shame is a powerful motivator," Neal replied.

"So that's how you ended up with them outside his office?"

"Pretty much. Then the cops showed up. Are we done?"

"I think so," Jones said, closing his notebook and standing up. "I need to make a report. Come on."

"Can I just..." Neal started to ask if he could just stay here, or stay down in Emergency, but of course he couldn't -- Jones wouldn't leave a felon at large alone in a hospital.

"I'm going to talk to the NYPD. I'll leave you in Agent Barrigan's custody," Jones said, sounding overly formal. Neal looked up at him.

"Agent Barrigan's escorting Mrs. Burke," he said slowly.

"That's right," Jones said. He was smiling again. Neal smiled back.

One brief wrangle with the Emergency desk attendant later, Neal found himself sitting next to Elizabeth in a hard hospital guest chair, Diana standing on the other side of the bed. Beyond the privacy curtain, someone else's heart monitor was beeping; Peter's beat in off-time, unsynched with the other monitor but strong and even. Elizabeth was holding Peter's hand; he was unconscious, skin an unhealthy grey, hair flattened with sweat.

"He's just asleep," Elizabeth said, not looking away from her husband. Neal felt helpless; he couldn't touch Peter, couldn't even touch Elizabeth, not with Diana there. He had to protect them, not just from whatever poison was being flushed from Peter's system but from himself. He had a cover here and he could not blow it, as much as he wanted to.

Elizabeth reached out and took Neal's hand with her free one. He glanced at her, hesitant, before tightening his fingers in hers gratefully -- he didn't know if she understood that he couldn't be the first one to reach out, but either way at least he could have this now. He held on, looking at the bump of Peter's knees under the blanket, the badge on Diana's hip, the railing of the bed, Elizabeth's hand in his, anywhere but Peter's face. After a while, Diana disappeared; she came back pretty quickly, looking regretful.

"They say you can stay tonight if you want," Diana said to Elizabeth, her hands resting on the railing on the other side of Peter's bed. "Neal and I can't."

"I can take Neal home," Elizabeth said.

"No, stay," Neal told her. He looked up at Diana. "Am I in my radius?"

"Got your GPS on?" Diana asked. Neal held up his wrist, showing off the watch. Diana glanced at Peter, let her gaze drift to Elizabeth, and seemed to make a decision. "Where's your tracker?"

"Peter's office."

"Jones debriefed you?"

"Yeah."

Diana nodded. "Okay. You're within two miles. Don't leave your radius. Tomorrow at eight, be at the office. Go home. Sleep."

Neal stood up, but Elizabeth didn't let go of his hand.

"You okay?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he said. "Peter's going to be fine. I'll come back in the morning after I get my tracker on. I need to clear my head, anyway."

She nodded, obviously uncertain. "Are you sure?"

"I won't do anything stupid, I promise," he answered. It was a good promise to make. Doing stupid things was sometimes his first method of self-defense, and he could already tell he was too strung out to go home and sleep, at least for a while. Outside, he said goodbye to Diana and walked a little ways down the street, taking out his phone.

"Caffrey!" Mike Shattuck answered when he called, and Neal could hear noise in the background. "Little late to be making business calls, man."

"I need to talk to you," Neal said. "Where are you?"

"Enright's. You want to come out for drinks?"

Neal considered it. Classless, maybe tasteless, from the outside, going out to a bar while Peter lay grey and unconscious in the hospital. But it was better than going home and trying to paint it out, or pacing like an animal in a cage. He thought Peter would understand.

"Yeah. See you in a while," Neal said, and hailed a cab.

Enright's was busy -- Friday night, the usual crowd of cops in the bar augmented by locals and clubbers looking for somewhere new to try. He caught sight of a couple of familiar faces as he walked in, but before he could greet anyone, he heard Shattuck's voice: "HEY FED! HEY, CAFFREY!"

Neal pushed his way to the end of the bar, where Shattuck was sitting.

"Caffrey," Shattuck said, when he managed to get through the crush of bodies. "How are you, kiddo?"

"Been better," Neal said, wondering how to tell him.

"This is Deke Jackson," Shattuck introduced him to a thickly muscled man -- Neal glanced between them briefly and diagnosed _boyfriend._ "He's FDNY. Deke, Neal Caffrey, he's Burke's partner."

"Nice to meet you," Deke said.

"Any friend of Shattuck's," Neal said, smiling. Deke grinned back. "Mike, can I grab you for a minute?"

"Sure. Something up? Hey, Peter's not around, is he?"

Neal put a hand on his arm and tugged him off his stool, back a few feet into a quiet corner.

"Something happened, huh?" Shattuck asked. "You wanted to talk?"

"Peter's in the hospital. He's fine," Neal added quickly, as a shadow passed over Shattuck's face. "They're keeping him for observation."

"Shooter?"

"Poison," Neal said. "He was undercover."

"What a pansy-ass way to die," Shattuck pronounced. "They get him?"

"Her. She's in custody."

"Peter gonna be okay?"

"Yeah. They wouldn't let me stay."

"They never do," Shattuck said, and cupped his elbow, studying Neal's face. "Kid, _you_ gonna be okay?"

Neal inhaled and put on his best reassuring smile. It was very good. "I'll be fine. I'm not the one who got his stomach pumped."

Shattuck nodded, face still serious. "Drink?"

"Just a beer," Neal answered, and Shattuck leaned over the bar to get the bartender's attention.

"Get him a Shiner," he said, and the bartender nodded. "On my tab -- kid drinks on me tonight," he added, jerking his thumb at Neal.

"Shattuck, you don't -- "

"It's the rules, Caffrey," Shattuck told him, shoving the beer into his hand. "Shut up and take it."

Neal closed his mouth.

"Gimme your hat," Shattuck ordered.

Neal passed his hat over silently. Shattuck gave him a nod and walked away, disappearing into the crowd. Neal stared after him and then turned to Deke.

"Where's he going with my hat?" he asked. Deke smiled.

"The New York civil servants' informal benevolent fund," he said. "He's passing the hat. It'll pay your tab, buy some flowers, maybe something for Burke's wife if there's some left over. Tonight you're drinking on the NYPD, Caffrey."

"Does everyone here know Peter?"

"Nah. But everyone knows someone it happened to, or it happened to them," Deke said. "Burke's paid in often enough. Time he got some back."

"Yeah, but I haven't," Neal pointed out.

Deke looked amused. "You're his partner. Doesn't matter. Next time they pass the hat, pay in. What goes around comes around."

"I just wanted a beer," Neal said.

"Welcome to the fraternity," Deke told him. Neal was opening his mouth to make some kind of rational, logical objection to this when Sergeant Calhoun appeared.

"Caffrey," she called, pushing through.

He managed to get out, "Hey, Calhoun -- " before she'd wrapped her arms around his shoulders and enclosed him in the kind of bear hug normally reserved for restraining suspects. His arms came up automatically and he curled into it just a little, the solid comfort of it, before she let him go.

"Captain just told me," she said. "You good?"

Neal nodded, feeling pretty unprepared for this situation.

"Burke's gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, he's just -- "

"Good. Someone get your keys?" she asked, nodding at the beer.

"What?" he said, totally lost now.

"Car keys. Someone driving you home?"

He caught on at that point. Any little society had rituals: the office kids with their credit-card roulette and cons with their pickpocket games and now, here, the cops, who expected a man who'd just come close to losing his partner would drink himself unconscious.

"I have cash for a cab," he said.

"Good. Yell if you need me, yeah?" she asked, and was gone again. Neal sat down in the seat Shattuck had vacated and gathered his wits. Okay, he could play that role; he didn't actually have to get noxiously drunk, as long as he always had a drink in his hand.

It was a weird night, and he spent almost an hour of it tense and anticipatory before he figured out that he didn't have to be. Cops came up to him and punched him in the shoulder or slapped him on the back and they all asked after The Fed, like Peter was the only FBI agent in New York. A lot of them asked if his wife was okay; some asked how the Jones kid was coming along or if he could tell Barrigan to get her ass back to the bar once in a while.

Shattuck returned with Neal's hat, stuffed with bills, and counted them out. Better than a hundred bucks, just from random cops paying in. Neal picked out a twenty and held it up, a question on his face.

"Oh, that's McConnelly," Shattuck said, adding the twenty to the stack. "He owed Burke ten bucks anyway. Another beer down here," he called, and replaced Neal's half-empty bottle with a fresh one.

Neal nursed that one through another hour of greetings, stories about Peter from Shattuck, and questions from the others. Eventually the EMTs came off shift; Neal managed to seek out the ones who'd been looking after Peter, and bought them drinks with some of the cash Shattuck shoved into his hand. Either Shattuck or Deke or Calhoun shadowed him, and wherever he went a chair or a bar stool was magically available. Cops he didn't even know told him they were sorry.

He found himself slowly coming down from the day, exhaustion settling in over the wired, quick-heartbeat panic of nearly losing Peter and all that had come after. He wound up back at the end of the bar with Shattuck and Deke, sitting on one of the stools, leaning against Calhoun's shoulder where she stood next to him. She slung an arm around his chest and took his weight effortlessly.

"How you doing, Caffrey?" she asked.

"Tired," he answered. Deke laughed.

"Send him home, Calhoun," Shattuck said.

"Or take him home," Deke added, and Calhoun slugged him in the arm.

"Come on, up," she told Neal, and he let the assumption of drunken stupor go, let her walk him to the door. Out in the cold night air, he leaned back against the wall and took a few deep breaths.

"Tell everyone thanks," he said, as Calhoun flagged down a taxi.

"Part of the job," she answered, flipping the bird as an occupied taxi pulled past. "You might be a Fed, Burke might be a Fed, but you drink here, you're one of us."

"Deke said that. Welcome to the fraternity. You know I'm not though, right?" he asked. She waved for another cab, but it turned at the cross-street. "You know I'm a criminal, Calhoun?"

"Then your balls must be enormous, and cops respect that too," she said. Neal laughed. A cab lurched to a stop in front of them. "In you go."

She held the door and leaned in after him, smiling.

"Listen, Burke matters to us. He brings you here, you must matter to him. Means you matter to us too. You don't get to pick this family, Caffrey. We pick you. Now go sleep it off," she said, and closed the door before he could reply.

"You goin' somewhere or just sitting there on your ass?" the cabbie asked. Neal leaned back and gave him June's address, watching Calhoun as she walked back into the bar and the cab pulled away.


	14. Chapter 14

Neal was almost dressed the next morning, just fitting his cufflinks in, when Mozzie called.

"Haversham," Neal said, answering the phone.

"Lady Suit just arrived," Mozzie replied.

"Are you staking out June's?" Neal inquired, keeping his voice even.

"I'm staking out the feds," Mozzie said. "Did you know Kevin Mitnick wiretapped the FBI? Think we could figure out how he did it?"

"Kev and I had drinks once," Neal said. "He's a telecom mastermind, that's way out of our league. Nice guy though. You're tailing Diana? She's not stupid."

"Neither am I. Relax, it's under control. This is just to say she's downstairs, and if you're right that your Suit's been meeting with her, he has to know about the box."

"All roads lead to Burke," Neal murmured.

"What're you going to do?"

Neal tipped his head back, thinking. "Diana's not going to make a move without Peter."

"Suit's in the hospital."

"You keeping an eye on him?"

"I got two guys on the door and a staff nurse on the payroll making sure he doesn't get accidentally overmedicated," Mozzie said. His voice softened a little; he might hate the Man but he had a weak spot for Peter. "We'll keep him safe, Neal."

"Paying out of the Ohio account?" Neal asked. It was one of his personal accounts; Mozzie shouldn't be paying for Peter's safety out of pocket.

"No, the Galveston one," Mozzie replied. Galveston had been a trust -- it was what Kate had lived on while he was locked up. But Kate was dead, and Peter was alive. "Do you think he's really in any danger?"

"Nah," Neal answered, propping the phone with his shoulder so that he could do up his other cufflink. He thought about Shattuck passing the hat, about Mozzie putting guards on the hospital. "I appreciate the precaution, though. Thank you."

"Eh, I had nothing else to do," Mozzie replied. "Neal, do you have a plan?"

"This is going to take some armwrestling," Neal said. "If I try it now, he'll just freak out by the time he can do anything about it. We wait until he's out of the hospital, I'll talk to him then. Two days, max."

"Unless he catches MRSA," Mozzie said.

"He's not going to catch MRSA," Neal answered. "He'll be fine. I gotta go or Diana's going to come looking. You can drop the tail on her."

"Whatever you say," Mozzie said dubiously. "Listen, I have a job out of town the next few days. But when you get it -- "

"You'll be the first to know," Neal promised. He hung up and checked the mirror; time to put on the game face, the one that said he didn't know Diana had the music box, he wasn't planning on confronting Peter about it, and he had absolutely no plan to steal it and bolt if Peter lied to him again.

Downstairs, Diana and June were having coffee. Neal put his hat on, smiled wide at both of them, and played good boy for his substitute owner. As far as he could tell, Diana bought it.

By the time they'd checked in at the Bureau and Diana had put Neal's tracker back on and taken care of some things that had to be handled in Peter's absence -- Neal really did admire her near-flawless forgery of his signature -- it was mid-morning, well into visiting hours at the hospital. Diana gave Neal a box of paperwork and files to carry, and left him at the hospital lobby.

"You're not coming in?" he asked, leaning back into the car, file box under his arm.

"Peter's out, someone has to make sure nobody blows the place up," she replied, grinning.

"You want me back at the Bureau today?"

Diana shook her head. "I want you here. And you can tell the guys your little friend posted in the hospital lobby that you've got things covered."

Neal gave her a slightly guilty grimace. "He gets paranoid."

"I noticed," she said. "Tell Peter we're thinking of him."

"Will do," he replied, and shut the door, heading into the hospital.

He asked at the desk where he could find Peter Burke, and when he put his head in the doorway to Peter's room he found Peter alone, asleep in a hospital bed behind a privacy curtain. There was a huge bouquet of flowers on a nearby table, and a fruit basket within reach of the bed. Neal crept in quietly, put the box down next to the bed, and settled into a nearby chair. Peter looked better; his skin was still paler than Neal would have liked, but there was more color in his cheeks and he was breathing easily. No more heart monitor, just an IV drip in one arm.

His own fascination with Peter, his attraction to him, often baffled Neal. He tried not to think too much about it, because introspection rarely led anywhere good in his line of work. Obviously some of it was that Peter had caught him, and was thus deserving of respect; even before that, Peter had been a good playmate (up until the end, a little voice reminded him, when Neal and Kate and Mozzie had been taut and scared all the time, because the FBI had guns). And if Neal had known what Peter could _do_ , if he had known the hidden places in his own head Peter could crack into --

But he hadn't. So Peter had simply been the guy who caught him, and then the guy who owned him. And that was enough, it seemed, to build something deeper in Neal, a desire that he had never expected would come to anything.

"You gonna sit there all day?" Peter asked, and Neal almost jumped out of his own skin. Peter opened one eye.

"Jesus, Peter," Neal said, adrenaline pumping through his system. "I thought you were asleep."

"Nothing else to do around here," Peter replied, opening the other eye and sitting up a little more in the bed. "I take it I have you to thank for the get-well gifts?" he added, holding up a card. _GET WELL SOON. NYPD FDNY NY-EMT & ASSOC._ Below, _Call if you need anything. M._

"I just told Shattuck," Neal said. "He took over from there."

"You went to Enright's?"

Neal nodded.

"How'd that go?" Peter asked, and Neal could hear in his voice that he was acting a lot healthier than he felt.

"Shattuck passed the hat, bought me a beer. Calhoun put me in a cab," Neal said. He was right: Peter got it. Why he'd gone, what had happened, why he'd needed to be with people if he couldn't stay with Peter.

Peter laid down the card and reached out, palm cool on Neal's cheek. Neal turned into it, closing his eyes.

"Thank you," Peter said. "I'm -- "

"Just -- don't," Neal interrupted, because he didn't want to think about the possibility that Peter could have died.

"Okay." Peter's thumb drifted down over the corner of his mouth, and then he let him go. Neal looked up at him.

"I brought you some files from Diana," he said, and the eagerness in Peter's eyes was ridiculous.

***

They let Peter out of the hospital late that night, long after Neal had gone to take the files back to the office and, he promised, not get into any mischief.

There was something odd about Neal -- something subdued, or perhaps withdrawn, but Peter decided not to worry about it. For all he knew, it was a hangover from the bar. Which was a funny thing, that Neal had known instinctively to go to Enright's, even if he hadn't known what he'd encounter there. It was good. Neal liked people, was good with people, but sometimes lived too much in his own head.

The next morning Peter was back at the hospital for a checkup, and then in to the FBI as early as he could get. He had inprocessing, paperwork, and --

"Burke!" Hughes barked, as Peter was passing his office.

A meeting with Hughes, apparently.

"Sir?" he asked, leaning in the doorway. Hughes gestured him in and Peter sat, frowning.

"Feeling better?" Hughes asked.

"Yeah. Clean bill of health this morning, I was just going to go file my medical forms," Peter said, pointing in the direction of his office.

"Glad to hear it. Sure you don't want another few days?"

Peter shook his head. "The Novice case has a lot of accounting to go through. I'll be behind a desk for a few days, take it easy for now."

"Good. Let me know if you need some time."

"Thank you sir, I will," Peter said, and was starting to rise when Hughes held up a hand. Peter sat back in the chair again.

"We need to talk about Caffrey," he said. Peter tensed. "How close an eye are you keeping on him?"

"As close as I think he needs, at any given time. Why?" Peter asked. "Has he been accused of something?"

Hughes tilted his head slightly. "Most people would ask if he'd _done_ something."

"Has he?"

"I don't know." Hughes rubbed a hand over his face. "You see him outside of work?"

"Sure, he comes over once in a while for dinner. Keeps him out of trouble," Peter replied warily.

"Are you ever at his place?"

"Sometimes, if I need a file he has or if we need to talk." Peter didn't like the drift of this conversation. "Positive reinforcement works well with him. I don't toss his place, if that's what you're asking."

"Not exactly." Hughes passed over a folder and Peter opened it, looking down at the full-page image printout inside -- text, and a block print image of a woman in a period dress. "That's a copy of a document recovered in California about a week ago. It's purportedly a page from a rare 17th-century manuscript. It's a fake."

"It's good work," Peter replied, lifting it up to study it. "Could be his from the bad old days. Any reason to think it is?"

"There was microprinting," Hughes said. Peter looked up at him.

"Microprinting on a 17th-century manuscript page?" he asked incredulously. "That's pretty cocky, even for Neal."

"Have a look," Hughes said. Peter set the manuscript page aside and looked at the one underneath. There was an enlargement of the illustration -- the woman's hair. Set into that was a second enlargement that very clearly showed the letters _N.C._

"It's not his usual typeface," he said, perplexed.

"Forensics thinks this is recent. Not more than a month old," Hughes said.

"Neal wouldn't have had the resources to make this, not in his home," Peter replied. "It's possible he has a workshop, but I don't think he'd have the time, and he doesn't spend enough time anywhere to make it plausible. I mean, it's not like he's got a micron engraver sitting on his desk," he said, tipping his head at the bullpen.

"You think this isn't his?" Hughes asked.

"I might not be the best person to ask," Peter admitted. "I hope it isn't his. It seems unlikely. But unless someone wanted to frame him -- no," he said suddenly, turning back to the original image. "You said California?"

"The Sacramento branch office is handling the investigation officially," Hughes said. "Why?"

"Neal doesn't do much of this kind of work," Peter said, "but his little protégé did. That kid from the Barlowe case, Clive. Clive looked up to Neal. Could be him trying to get Neal's attention. On an outside bet, could be him trying to get Neal in trouble. Neal didn't exactly make life easy for the kid. You want me to have Diana look into it?"

"Sacramento hasn't let it go yet. Sit on this for now," Hughes said. "Keep an eye on Caffrey. See if you can find any way to prove he did or did not do this. Don't talk to him about it. I don't want him doing anything stupid to get a message back, if it's Clive. He does enough stupid crap already."

"He should know about this," Peter pointed out. "Especially if the Sacramento office might come after him for it. I don't like investigating him without his knowledge, not when he's working as my asset."

"That's an order, Peter," Hughes said. "It's not your case."

"If Sacramento gives it up, I want it," Peter answered. "I want warning if they're coming after Neal for it."

"Done. In the meantime I'll suggest they look into Clive Banks." Hughes looked up at Peter. "This kid, is he some kind of proto-Caffrey?"

Peter shook his head. "Neal doesn't think he'll get very far."

"Okay. I'll keep you in the loop. Go on," Hughes said, and Peter walked slowly back to his office.

Neal showed up that morning late enough to be fashionable, early enough not to get yelled at. Though he probably would have had a pass; Peter was on his feet but still tired from the process of having a needle _stabbed into his heart_ , and didn't have the energy to harangue anyone today, least of all Neal.

Which was why he didn't fight when Neal sat down in his office and said, with remarkable calm, "You lied to me about the music box. I know you still have it." Peter just asked how he'd found out, and let Neal do most of the talking from there.

Diana thought that showing Neal the box was a terrible idea, when Peter asked her to bring it to him that afternoon. Peter pretty much agreed with her, but at this point he had no choice, and he could acknowledge Neal's right to know. Besides, Neal was conducting himself with an unusual amount of decorum: he was intense, but then he always was, when it came to Kate. At least he was being patient, being quiet. That should, in itself, have been a warning.

Peter didn't want to have the box in his house, not with Elizabeth there; he knew she knew something about it, but the less she saw, the safer she was, and for once she'd agreed with him about that. She was wary about this in the way she normally wasn't, about his work. He could hear in her voice that she still remembered when Fowler had harassed her at work, when he'd almost ruined her business completely. When he called her, she just said, "Stay safe, sweetie."

"Promise," he answered.

"Love you."

"Love you too," he said, and rested a hand on the bag sitting between him and Neal in the car. Neal was watching him carefully as he hung up.

"Ready to do this?" Peter asked. Neal nodded.

June's house was dark when they arrived, and Neal didn't turn on many lights in the loft; no Mozzie either, maybe a lucky happenstance or maybe a contrivance on Neal's part. Neal just walked to his worktable and sat down, hands rubbing on his thighs as the only sign of his nervousness. Peter set the bag on the table and unzipped it, lifting the box out carefully. It always felt heavier than it should. Neal probably would have called it the weight of history.

Neal went still and his eyes glittered, sweeping over the box. Peter thought it was a relatively ugly thing, covered in mismatched amber like a crazy-quilt and adorned with unattractive little rococo cherubs. Then again, he wouldn't have paid much for most of the art they encountered in their work. Didn't mean he didn't understand the value of it.

He set the bag aside and sat down, facing Neal across the box.

"I didn't tell you everything," he admitted. Neal was still staring at the box. "For your own protection. I don't know what you're gonna do, and neither do you."

"I know my options," Neal said, looking up at him, and Peter wasn't sure what he meant -- so he defined it, because whatever Neal thought his options were, they were basically two things.

"Revenge or justice, right?" he said. Neal looked back at the box. "Neal. As long as I'm involved, it's gonna be the latter."

"What if justice isn't good enough?" Neal asked.

And that was Neal's world, wasn't it? There was no certainty in his life, not when it came to this. Why would there be? But Peter had twelve years of hard lessons, and he knew -- if you crossed that line as a lawman, you ended up like Deckard. If you lost your moral center, the power you had made you a monster.

"It has to be," Peter said, hoping Neal would believe him, would trust him this far. "It will be."

Neal didn't reply, at least not to that. "What'd you find?"

Peter exhaled and leaned forward, explaining the missing piece of the box, the keyhole. "The missing piece is a key," he finished, and was going to promise Neal they'd find it, or find a way to pick the lock --

But Neal was leaning back, reaching inside his jacket, and when his hand emerged he was holding a small gold figurine.

"...which you have," Peter said, annoyance warring with triumph. Neal looked almost smug.

"No more secrets, Peter," he said, pushing the key into the keyhole. It made a soft _click._

"No more secrets," Peter agreed, and Neal turned the key. Inside the box, gears audibly turned, and on top of the lid the other cherubs rotated too. Peter rested his hands on the near corners of the box, and Neal mirrored his movements on the other side; together they lifted the lid.

For a second, nothing happened; Peter shot a glance at Neal, who seemed to be holding his breath. Then, with another soft click, the interior lid fell open. Dull metal gleamed at them from the inside.

Neal looked to Peter, who nodded; carefully, deftly, he lifted the metal strip out of its little tray, holding it up to the light.

"Second comb," Neal breathed, studying it. "God, the..." Peter watched him as he bent over to study the mechanism in the base of the box. "This is...look, there's the brackets for it," he said, pointing to one of the screws that held the original comb in place. They had little elongated wings, nothing more than irregularities unless you knew what they were for. "They had to have been designed together, or the cylinder wouldn't play correctly for the base comb...."

He seemed more caught up in the construction of it, the mechanics, than the fact that they'd finally found the box's secret, or at least taken the first step. He was already taking the machine apart in his head, studying how it must have been designed.

"You want to see what it plays?" Peter asked. Neal took the hint and carefully fitted the comb onto the brackets. He glanced at Peter.

"You do the honors," he said quietly.

Peter reached over and pushed the little switch inside the mechanism. Someone must have cared for the box over the years, he knew; kept it oiled, kept it wound. Maybe replaced the springs when they grew brittle.

The song it played was discordant, almost chaotic, difficult to separate out the initial music from the new comb. He'd half been dreading that it would simply play a new song, which would mean -- it would mean that the comb meant nothing. This noise, though, meant something. It had to.

"It must be some kind of message," Neal said, as if he were agreeing with Peter's thoughts. "This was built into the box when it was constructed. There has to be a reason."

"I can't take it to our code guys," Peter answered. "The Bureau still thinks the box is in evidence in DC."

Neal glanced up at him, grinning, and flicked the switch to turn it off. "Fortunately I know a guy."

Peter grinned back. "Want to call him?"

"He's out of town until tomorrow," Neal shook his head. "Even if I called him now, he couldn't be here for hours, and I don't want to tell him over the phone."

"This is remarkably anticlimactic," Peter sighed, sitting back.

"What'd you think would be in there?" Neal asked. Peter shrugged.

"I've been wondering. It's too small to hold much of value, except maybe some jewelery. State secrets would have gone long stale by now. Treasure map?"

"Could still be that," Neal said, studying the box again. "Have to be a pretty big treasure, to go through all this for it. And it can't be the location of the rest of the Amber Room, or it wouldn't have been built into the box."

"What did you think?" Peter asked.

"I didn't care," Neal said. "Didn't matter. Getting Kate back, that's what mattered. Then...finding out who did this. I'm not sure we're any closer." He looked up at Peter. "Are we?"

Peter chewed on his lip. "We will be," he said quietly. "We'll figure it out. Knowing what someone wants is sometimes halfway to knowing who they are."

Neal nodded. Peter cleared his throat.

"Where'd you get the key?" he asked, and held up a hand when Neal gave him a rebellious look. "I'm not asking as the FBI. I'm just curious."

"Alex," Neal said. He began disassembling the mechanism -- sliding the comb out of its brackets, placing it carefully back in the hidden compartment. Peter watched as he studied the construction of it, the little hinges that pushed the compartment's base out, the way the wood was joined so as to be invisible unless you looked for the seam. Neal liked to know the way things worked. He talked as he fiddled with it. "We used to chase the box, just because. It was a score. Almost got it in Amsterdam. Allegedly," he added. "She got the key from a fence she knew, it's what put us on to the box in the first place. She carried it for years, like a lucky charm. Gave it to me before she left for Italy."

He closed the lid of the box and carefully turned the key to lock it. He removed it and held it out to Peter, cupped in his palm. Peter stared at it for a second, startled by the gesture, then closed Neal's fingers around it.

"Keep it. Better if they stay apart," he said. Neal nodded and tucked it back in his pocket. He looked like he was trying to decide something.

"The box needs to go back to Diana?" he asked.

"It should. She can keep it safe, and nobody suspects her," Peter said.

"You gonna tell her what we found?"

"Yeah. She's a part of this. She deserves to know."

Neal nodded. Peter bent down to gather up the bag for the music box, but Neal put a hand on it, fingers draped gently across the crown on top.

"Can you stay tonight?" he asked, voice low. "I have a safe, it'll be secure here. Just tonight. It's not about the box," he added, and Peter saw the half-wild look in his eyes. What they'd found wasn't what he'd been expecting, couldn't help them get any closer to Fowler, couldn't be unraveled until Mozzie got a look at it in the morning. Maybe not even then. Neal was calm and quiet and inside he was probably falling apart.

"Show me," Peter said. Neal got up and walked to his dresser next to the bed. He turned the handle once, in one direction, and then in the other. When he opened the door, the back of the dresser opened too. He pushed his shirts aside and gestured at a steel panel with a digital combination lock.

"Byron kept a safe up here," he said, punching in a code. Peter joined him as he swung the door open. "I upgraded it."

"Should I see whatever's inside?" Peter asked. Neal pulled the panel open; inside it was mostly empty, except for a small metal container and --

"You keep a sketchbook in a safe?" Peter said, glancing at him.

"It's a private book," Neal replied. "Secure enough for you?"

"Yeah." Peter sighed. He took his gun out of its holster and set it in the safe. "I need to call El. Stash the music box. Carefully."

Neal gave him a dry look, but he picked up the box, packing it away in its bag. Peter watched him store it even as he was heading for the big French doors, stepping outside with phone in hand. Elizabeth answered on the third ring.

"So?" she asked. "Good news?"

"I think so," Peter said. "Hard to know yet."

"Well, don't tell me the details. You coming home?"

He sighed. "Neal's having a crazy moment."

"You need to stay?"

"I think I should. You can come over, I don't think he'd mind -- "

"I'm exhausted," she said. "I think I'll pass. Is Neal going to be okay?"

"He's just off-balance. This whole thing..."

"I know, hon," she answered. "It's fine. I'm letting Satch sleep on your side of the bed, though."

"You're amazing," he told her.

"I know that too," she answered, real amusement in her voice. "You owe me a pot roast."

"Any night of the week," he said. "I love you."

"You too. Kiss Neal for me."

"Yeah, I will," he promised, and hung up.

It was cold, out on the terrace, and the wind swept across it occasionally, carrying up noise and smells from the street below: cars and exhaust, steam from the manhole covers, a wild green smell from the trees that grew around June's house. A far removal from the place the box had been built, probably in some quiet workshop in St. Petersburg. There was no craftman's stamp on it -- understandable if it had been not merely art but artifice, something meant to hide secrets.

He'd seen photographs of the reconstructed replica of the Amber Room at Tsarskoye Selo, and he knew more about the original than he really cared to. German soldiers had taken only thirty-six hours to dismantle it entirely, and portions of it had gone on display in Königsberg Castle -- the box included. From there, perhaps the rest had been destroyed in the bombing of the castle, or the burning of it in the sixties by the Red Army; above a certain temperature, amber would soften and burn. Or it had been removed from the castle, put on a ship that the Russians later sank or a train going somewhere unknown. It could be stashed in a mine or a cavern, in Deutschneudorf or Weimar. A single panel of Italian mosaic work and the music box were the only known surviving relics.

When he came back inside, Neal was hanging his tie in the wardrobe, as placid as if an international treasure wasn't hidden behind it. Peter leaned against the wall and watched him.

"How valuable do you suppose it is?" he asked. Neal looked up at him, unbuttoning his shirt.

"Depends on how you look at it," he answered. "There's blue amber in the inset, and the accents are gold; dismantle it and you have maybe a hundred grand in rare materials. As an antique, without the history, it's good craftsmanship, especially the hidden compartment. Probably two, three hundred thousand if you're selling it legitimately. As a relic of the Amber Room, it's -- " his eyes clouded over a little. "Priceless. I'd insure it for millions. At auction, depending on who was bidding, you might even get that much. It has a story, like the Heart of Earth diamond. People have -- people have died for it. Killed for it."

"Back when you and Alex were chasing it, what would you have done with it?"

Neal looked away. "We were stupid. I don't think either of us thought that far ahead. If she did, she only thought about fencing it, probably. Me, I just liked the challenge. Not that half a mil wouldn't have been nice, but..." he pulled his undershirt off over his head, smoothing down his hair. "The money wasn't the point."

"It became the point," Peter said. "Eventually. Didn't it?"

Neal looked at him carefully. "Yeah. Not for the music box, but...yeah. I wanted money, I wanted to retire. Buy a house somewhere, get married. I thought Kate did too. I don't know."

He came forward, standing in front of Peter, bare muscle and uncertainty.

"This isn't the life I expected for myself," he said. "There were a lot of things I thought might happen. This isn't one of them."

"Would you have been happy with that one?" Peter asked. "The one you wanted?"

"Guess we'll never know," Neal answered, and reached up to unknot Peter's tie. Peter let him, let him pull it out and toss it over the back of a chair and work on the buttons of his shirt. "I like this one. There are things I'd change...the tracker, other things, but..."

He raised a hand suddenly, sharply, pressing his fingers over the bullet-wound scar on his shoulder.

"I want to catch him," he said. "Fowler. If I can't have revenge I want justice. I want it to be over, so I can have this life and not hate myself for it, so I can _sleep_ at night -- "

"Hey, easy," Peter said, pulling his hand away, and Neal stepped in and bent his head, resting his face against Peter's neck. "Easy, shh," he repeated, while Neal held onto him and breathed like he'd just run a race. "We'll get him. We'll figure it out."

"We have to," Neal said. "We _have to._ "

"We will." Peter reached up and gently, very gently, disengaged Neal from his shoulder, held him by the throat and tipped his head up. The tension slowly eased out of Neal's shoulders, and his eyes cleared. Peter smiled. "What do you want?"

"Whatever you want," Neal said. The muscles of his throat and jaw shifted against Peter's hand. "I just need -- "

"Yeah, I know," Peter answered, because he did. Neal needed something to quiet him down, put him in a place he didn't have to think for a while. He could imagine everything in Neal's head: the mechanics of the music box, the twisting paths that it might put them on, to Fowler or to whatever enigmatic secrets it stored, the impatience to find out what those were, the frantic need to lay Kate fully to rest, the moral confusion over his instinct for revenge versus his knowledge that Peter would insist on justice. So much going on behind those eyes. "There's nothing more we can do tonight, right?"

Neal nodded.

"The music box is locked up. Mozzie won't be home until tomorrow."

"Yeah." Neal's eyes were almost glassy now, slowly losing focus.

"And we can't figure this out on our own, and we can't do anything more until Mozzie is here to help."

"Right."

"And I'm here, so even if you wanted to do anything, you couldn't."

"I asked for you to stay," Neal pointed out.

"That wasn't what I said," Peter replied. Neal fell silent, and Peter let go of his throat. "Go get undressed."

He was pleased when Neal didn't ask him what he was doing, where he was going, because Neal sometimes fought this even when he wanted it, and that made it harder on both of them. He just went to the bed and finished undressing, while Peter walked to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He sipped it, and by the time he'd turned around Neal was sitting on the bed, naked. Barely half-hard.

Peter carried the water back to the bed and set it on the side table. "Lie down."

Neal pulled his legs up, stretching out, but he was still tense, expectant, and he stayed propped on an elbow. "You want me to -- "

"I'll let you know," Peter told him. "Lie down."

Neal lay back slowly, eyes still watching him, trying to figure out what he wanted. Peter dipped his thumb into the glass of water and rubbed it across Neal's lips; Neal sucked it into his mouth, a little greedy, and a jolt went through Peter like he'd been shocked. Maybe he needed this too. When you had Neal Caffrey at your disposal, nervous and hungry and tense, you couldn't focus on much else.

He pulled away, Neal following for a second before lying back again, and Peter twisted and bent, kissing his stomach briefly before mouthing over his cock, which apparently caught Neal by surprise. He jerked sharply, sucked in a breath, pushed himself up again; Peter was reaching up to push him down when Neal said, "You don't have to."

Peter fixed him with an even look. "You belong to me," he said. "I'll do what I want to you."

And there it was, that moment when Neal's whole body went lax and he stopped _thinking._ He leaned back again, eyes sliding shut, and just waited. Peter bent again and sucked carefully, just the head of his cock, until Neal began to whine and twitch. Then he stopped and stood up, pulling his shirt and holster off together, unbuckling his belt. Neal waited so patiently for him.

He came back once he'd undressed and propped himself over Neal's body, Neal's thighs automatically coming up to cradle his hips. He kissed Neal's shoulder, over the scar.

"Maybe we'll get you a collar," he said, and Neal bucked up against him. "Just for when I can't be here. You can keep it in your safe, with that sketchbook."

Neal moaned something that might have been an affirmative. Peter smiled and bit his skin, gently.

"You feel hard," Neal managed, opening his eyes and giving him a dirty grin.

"You do that to me," Peter agreed. "Good?"

"Yeah, good," Neal breathed, arching up against him again. "You want to -- "

"Neal, I will tell you what I want," Peter scolded, stilling his hips. Neal whined again. "Elizabeth loves it when you do that. I think," he added, starting to move, "next time you come over, you should fuck me."

Neal groaned.

"I think she'd like to see that," Peter breathed. Actually he thought Elizabeth would _love_ to see that, but he didn't want Neal too worked up too quickly. This wasn't about that, not really; it was about showing Neal he had a future -- a future he could destroy if he made the wrong choice. "You think?"

"Whatever you want," Neal said.

"Good answer," Peter replied, moving a little faster. Neal was shifting restlessly underneath him, but the tense anxiety of earlier was gone; this was just sex, it was all sex, and that was good. Calming, for both of them.

He kept it slow, making sure Neal couldn't move too much, making sure Neal was focused on him and not on the thousand other things he could be thinking of. Neal was strong, and he pushed for more with his body if not with words, but Peter had the advantage of leverage and weight. And anyway Neal only ever pushed here, in bed, to confirm what he already knew: that Peter would stop him, that Peter could be trusted to control this.

"Please," Neal started, and Peter grinned against his mouth. "Please, Peter, please..."

"Please what?" he asked, settling back a little.

"I want -- I need to -- " Neal tipped his head back and let out a struggling breath.

Oh. He was asking to come. He was waiting, struggling for control, and Peter said, "No. Wait."

Neal groaned, frustrated, and the sheer power of it tipped something over in Peter, that Neal would actually use every last ounce of his self-control just on Peter's word. He leaned to one side slightly, wrapped a hand around Neal's cock -- Neal jerked and struggled and Peter just kept moving, rubbing off against his thigh, holding on as Neal fought for it. He could feel himself tense, feel orgasm building quickly, and let go at the same time he said, "Now, okay, it's okay -- "

Neal's fingernails dug into his shoulders and they came together, messy, slick with sweat, Neal arching off the bed and Peter struggling for balance. When Neal finally dropped down Peter went with him, collapsing over his body, forehead pressed against his jaw.

They were silent for a long moment, Peter catching his breath, Neal's fingers sliding over his shoulders, up his spine, gently exploring the ridge of his throat. Peter let him, too worn out for the moment to move.

"Thank you," Neal said finally.

"I'm sorry," Peter replied. He felt Neal's fingers stop their idle movement.

"For?" Neal asked, carefully.

"I should have told you sooner. But it's...dangerous, you're dangerous," Peter said, sliding down into the bed, turning his head to see Neal's reaction to this. "Do you understand?"

"No," Neal said, honesty but no particular bitterness in his tone. "I don't. Then again...we're different people. I don't think I have to understand. And..." he shook his head against the pillow, then pushed himself up and off the bed. "...you told me the truth, when I asked."

He walked away and Peter let him go; he came back soon enough, climbed onto the bed and offered Peter a towel to clean up with.

"What would you have done if I'd lied?" Peter asked.

"Found out where you kept it, stolen it, and run," Neal said. He sat crosslegged, facing Peter on the bed, and shrugged at Peter's look. "I might be domesticated but I'm not tame, Peter."

"You would have run, because of one lie?" Peter asked.

"Because of that lie," Neal replied. Peter turned to stare at the ceiling. "Listen, I know what you think, that I make stupid decisions based on impulse, that I don't have any control when it comes to some things. But you don't get what you want unless you take a risk for it. The bigger the want, the bigger the risk."

"What is it you want?"

Neal ducked his head. "No secrets. I want revenge. I'll settle for justice, because you don't lie to me -- so you really think it'll be enough, so...that's a risk too. Risking that you'll be right. Betting my sanity on it. I'm tired, Peter, I want this to be over. But it can't be until someone suffers for this, either way. I know you don't think the dreams will stop when it's done but they have to, they will, I can do that. I just need to know it's over."

Peter sighed. "You are eighteen flavors of crazy, Neal."

"Maybe. But I know my way around them, at least. And a couple of those are your fault," he added, grinning. He touched Peter's shoulder. "Can you stay, or do you need to...?" he tilted his head at the door.

"I can stay," Peter said, and Neal tugged at the blankets, pulling them out from under him, sliding under and arranging them until Peter found himself with an eighteen-flavors-of-crazy con man up against his shoulder, arm draped across his chest, Neal's favourite way to sleep.

"I owe El flowers," Neal remarked.

"I'm on it, I promised her pot roast," Peter replied. "If Mozzie walks in on us in the morning..."

"It'll be way more traumatic for him than for you, trust me," Neal said, voice muffled slightly in the pillow.

***

Neal woke once in the night, rising up out of some dream -- not one of the bad ones, just something unsettling and vague -- to the sound of Peter's voice, low and even. He wasn't even sure he was really awake, at first.

Peter was talking about something, and he didn't catch every word but he mostly got them assembled in his head: it was about grief, and about Elizabeth, how he didn't know if he'd be any better than Neal if Elizabeth had died in front of him, how the idea of losing her the way Neal had lost Kate sometimes frightened him. Something about the difficulty of watching Neal struggling every inch to get somewhere good, and how easy it seemed for Neal to throw it away. How it would be to lose him to that.

Neal snorted, perplexed and embarrassed by the idea, raising a hand to scratch his nose. He opened his eyes and asked sleepily if Peter had said something.

"No," Peter answered. "It's late, go back to sleep."

Neal agreed with a grunt. It took him a while to fall asleep again, but Peter didn't speak anymore. Which was just as well. The weight of knowing just how deep it would cut Peter and Elizabeth if he did throw it away, that wasn't something he needed. Because he might have to, in order to end this. And he would, if he had to.

The next time he woke, it was to his phone ringing and Peter groaning something about too much daylight. Neal rolled over and fumbled for the phone, blinking at the caller ID, and then answered it.

"Moz," he said, and then cleared his throat and tried again. "Hey, Moz."

"I'm about half an hour out of Manhattan," Mozzie said. "You texted?"

"Yeah, I need you to get here, I got something to show you," Neal said, rolling out of the bed and walking to the kitchen. "Can you bring your recording rig?"

"Digital or reel-to-reel?"

"Better make it reel-to-reel."

"Is the Suit there? I thought I heard the sound of oppressive snoring."

Neal sighed. "No, you didn't, but yes, he is."

"Well, get him out."

"He's gotta be here too, Moz," Neal said carefully. Mozzie was quiet for a little while.

"Is this about antiquities?" Moz asked carefully.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is," Neal said.

"I still don't want him there while I'm setting up."

"Why?"

"Neal, did you seriously just ask me that?" Mozzie said. Neal rubbed his forehead.

"Yeah, sorry. Okay. We'll get breakfast, meet you here in an hour and a half?"

"I'll be there," Mozzie said, and hung up. If Neal hadn't been listening with half an ear to the sound of Peter dressing, for Peter's footsteps, he would have started when Peter slid an arm around his waist from behind.

"Nice long breakfast, hour and a half," Peter said. "Let me guess, he wants me out of here while he sets up?"

"Mozzie can get...quirky," Neal said.

"I'm aware," Peter said, and released him. "Listen, I need to go home and get changed. Get the safe open, I'm taking the music box and my gun."

"The box is fine -- "

"The box doesn't leave my own personal twenty-foot radius until it goes back to Diana," Peter said.

"It's in a secure safe," Neal protested.

"Does Mozzie have the combination?" Peter asked, and Neal sighed. "That's what I thought. Come on, open it up."

Neal walked to the safe and entered the code, deliberately not glancing over his shoulder to see if Peter was watching. He reached in, lifted the bag with the box in it out carefully, and handed it to Peter. He stepped aside and let Peter take the gun himself, fitting it easily and absentmindedly into his holster.

"I'll go home, kiss my wife, be back in time to get breakfast," Peter said, walking to the door. "I can meet you at that café down the block, the one with the -- "

" -- bacon breakfast tacos, which will give you a heart attack eventually," Neal replied.

"I'm touched you care," Peter told him gravely.

"If you die before my four years are up, I have to train a whole new handler," Neal called after him, as Peter left. He heard Peter's laughter, cut off by the door closing, and then only silence in the room.

***

Mozzie, as Neal knew he would be, was neurotically ecstatic about the box, about the secret compartment in the box, about the code in the secret compartment in the box...

Neither of them were simple thinkers, and truthfully neither was Peter, but Peter was a lot more direct, more systematic. Peter's idea of investigation, now that Mozzie was on the track, was to wait for Mozzie to turn something up, the way he'd wait for Jones or Diana to finish their portion of an investigation. In the meantime, naturally, Peter and Neal would look after some new case, multitasking what Peter undoubtedly thought of as his secondary team.

Neal, on the other hand, felt perfectly comfortable pulling eight or nine strings at once, working Peter, the system, his contacts, and Mozzie all at the same time. It wasn't taking advantage; it was just manipulating things _to_ advantage. Namely, Neal's advantage. He didn't feel especially guilty about it. He was acting without malice, and giving Peter an interesting case to chew on in the meantime.

Besides, it kept him busy. There were fences to talk to, files to forge, thefts to commit. You couldn't pull a heist unless you knew what you wanted, and cons weren't usually fishing expeditions. What he wanted was Fowler; fine. The music box wasn't giving up its secrets? No problem. There were easier ways of doing things. Alex, unlike Peter, was desperate enough to go along with his plan to use the box to lure Fowler out. In the meantime, let Mozzie keep struggling with the code, let Peter keep chasing the Silver Burglar. It was tidy, and Neal loved a tidy game.

He'd been out of the game too long to remember that tidy usually meant he was overlooking something. Tidy was, in fact, sloppy; it depended too much on the predictability of the human race. Because when he got back to the van after telling Alex how to steal the box, Diana was on her way home. Diana was barely a handful of steps behind Alex, and Peter had a line on Fowler.

All Neal could do was play out the bluff, try to keep calm when fury was rising in front of his eyes now that he knew beyond doubt Fowler had killed Kate, try to convince Peter he had nothing to do with the theft of the box.

Peter wasn't buying it. Neal didn't know why he'd entertained the vaguest hope he would. Instead, Peter benched him from staking out the music box, and that infuriated him more than anything. They had all this ammunition against Fowler now and there was nothing he could do with any of it -- couldn't solve the code of the music box, couldn't be there when Fowler took the bait. And it was the powerlessness more than anything that made him look at the gun in Akhiro's shop.

***

**Interlude I: Truth**

This is the addict.

Neal knows what can be done with a gun and what the consequences will be. The ratio of gratification to destruction. He looks at it longingly and knows how good it will feel to have it in his hand. Normally he doesn't like to handle guns, because they are beautiful and perfect machines but they serve no purpose for him, and they endanger him.

With a purpose, suddenly the gun becomes everything he wants. There's no going back if he takes it, though; the gun only leads one direction and while the path may branch, further down, it's not terribly likely. So he turns away, because Neal likes his options.

But then he turns back, because he's not strong enough to trust justice. Neal loves Kate, still loves her even if she's dead, even if maybe he never really knew her. He wants the nightmares to stop. And guns are clean and cut right to the truth of matters.

He likes to see a gun in Peter's hands when he's cleaning it or loading it; two machines designed for different purposes but part of a whole. He likes to see a gun in his own hands if it can be put to use without firing, like it was when he was playacting the role of a hired killer. Neal never misses a chance to make an impression. And he likes the weight of the antique tucked up against the small of his back, promising truth from Fowler's mouth. If Neal were a sadist, if he thought he were capable, he'd just use it to get Fowler alone, and then he'd show him what Kate felt. He'd burn Fowler alive.

He's not capable of that, but he's capable of getting the truth from him and once he has the truth he's capable of shooting him. He's sure he is. He must be. Peter has taken away his chance at justice, but the gun is his chance at revenge.

And nothing will stop him.

***

Peter stopped him.

Neal would believe Peter has some kind of supernatural power if he didn't know better. Catching him, well, that was hard work and effort; holding him was half Peter's skill and half Neal's willingness. But this, when Neal had every advantage, a locked room and Fowler at gunpoint and the time to find out the truth before he executed him, Peter shouldn't have been able to stop him. The fact that he had, more than anything, was what made Neal hand over the gun.

Peter had said to him that he was the only person who should put cuffs on Neal. Making Diana do it was salt in the wound. Neal submitted, because he knew how to do that; God knew, three years in prison taught you how to take whatever you were given with a bowed head. He walked out ahead of her, her hand never leaving the chain between the cuffs, and ignored the whispers of the people they passed. Diana ducked his head for him as he was put into the passenger's seat -- not the back seat, that was something at least -- and slammed the door after him.

Being cuffed behind the back was uncomfortable, and after a while could get painful. Neal didn't really think much about it; he just slipped the cuffs off his left wrist, brought his arms around, and re-cuffed himself. He realized his mistake as Diana was opening the door, but at least he'd put the cuffs back on. He might as well brave it out. He gave her a little wave as she climbed in.

Normally, a trick like that -- just to prove, _hey, I could run, but I won't_ \-- would have netted him an eyeroll at the most. This time Diana reached across him, undid the cuffs, popped the glovebox, and took out a pair of secure zipties, the kind Peter had cuffed him with when he'd first captured him.

"Seriously?" Neal asked, as she wrapped one around his wrist and pulled it tight. She slipped the other one around his other wrist, through the loop of the first, and tightened it. Neal flinched as the plastic cut into his skin.

"You think this is a game?" Diana asked, shoving the cuffs in the glovebox and slamming it closed. She started the car.

"No," Neal said quietly. "It was never a game."

"You're damned right," Diana replied. Neal wished for Peter -- even Peter, furious, was better than Diana, because Diana couldn't be predicted the way Peter could. Peter wouldn't fall for his tricks but wasn't immune to his charm the way Diana was.

"So, what's the official Bureau response?" Neal asked, as they slid out into traffic.

"Where's the key?" Diana replied.

"June's place," Neal answered. Stony silence from Diana. "I'm going back to prison for this, huh."

"Don't talk to me," Diana said. Neal looked down at his hands, flexed his fingers. Given enough time or a sharp object he could get out of the zipties, but he couldn't slip them; that was why Peter had used them. He wondered if Diana kept them in the car because she was betting on the day he'd fuck up this badly. He wondered if Peter had given them to her.

Diana opened her mouth, closed it, drew another breath. Neal kept his head bowed.

"You're pissed at me," he tried, pushing his luck. "I get that -- "

"I'm not pissed at you," Diana cut him off. The car slowed; red light. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel when he glanced sideways. "Okay. Yeah. I'm pissed at you. But that's not why."

"Do I get to know why?" Neal asked. He couldn't think about going back to prison. It was bad enough, on its own, but losing Peter and Elizabeth -- he'd gone back once but then there'd been an end in sight and people waiting for him on the outside. If Peter was angry enough to send him back, then there was no way Peter or Elizabeth would ever...

Not thinking about it. He watched Diana instead, waited for her to respond.

"You scare the hell out of me," Diana said. She didn't look frightened. Her face was calm. "You come off as this...nice, charming, ultimately pretty harmless guy. Harmless in any way the Bureau needs to worry about," she added. "You put on the act that you're someone we could take down, even if we'd never have to. But I saw your face when you went out on that balcony. So," she said, exhaling slowly, "I used to think you just didn't have a moral compass. Now I wonder if you have any conscience at all. It's not that you're capable of anything. It's that if there's something you want, something you want to _do_ \-- murder, I don't know, would you have tortured him? -- you'll do it. You know how to do it. And you don't care who you drag down with you."

"That's not true," he said.

"You've already done it twice," she snapped, and Neal wanted to object, but she was right. He'd nearly destroyed Peter and Elizabeth for Kate; today's actions might yet destroy Peter.

"Fowler killed Kate," was his only defense.

"You thought Fowler killed Kate," Diana replied.

"With that kind of evidence, any judge -- "

"You aren't a judge, Neal, Jesus, how many times does Peter have to beat this into you?" she asked, and if he couldn't see the anger on her face he could hear it in her voice. "How many times does he have to put his ass on the line for you before you get it? _This isn't how we work._ And that's the official Bureau response, you two-bit little fuck-up thief."

That shouldn't have hurt as much as it did.

Diana exhaled slowly. "Sorry. I just don't know how to make you get it."

"I'm a _world-class_ fuck-up thief," Neal said reproachfully.

"You're world-class at something," Diana agreed. Neal kept quiet. "The things you can do, Neal -- if you don't care, if you have no empathy, then nobody's safe from you. Maybe you cared about Kate, or maybe you're just pissed someone took your toys away. I can't tell anymore. So yeah, no more pretending I think you'll be good, no more looking the other way and trusting you won't run when you slip your cuffs. Not with me. And if Peter didn't have a blind spot a mile wide when it comes to you, he'd agree with me."

She took her phone out of her pocket and handed it to him. "Here's what's going to happen. You're going to call Jones and tell him where to find the key. Then I'm going to call the Marshals and tell them the key's jamming, and they'll courier us a new one. Your tracker goes back on your ankle. This never happened."

Neal looked up sharply.

"Peter's taking care of the museum. He'll tell them something. Nobody saw you fire the gun but Fowler, and when Peter's done with Fowler he won't talk. This is what's known as a cover-up," Diana continued.

"Why would you do that?" Neal asked.

"Peter told me to," she said simply. "So now I'm in this and Jones is in it. Peter's in it. Three peoples' careers. Think about that. And don't think anything I do for you today has to do with you."

"Peter," Neal said. Diana nodded. "You'd do that for him."

"I am doing that for him." She looked at him for the first time since she'd put him in the car. "Wouldn't you?"

***

**Interlude II: Consequences**

Peter is not a dangerous driver, whatever Neal says. He's a very good defensive driver, however, and he's spent years driving in New York. The Taurus has the little E emblem on the license plate that lets him break laws, getting from Akhiro's place to Neal's, but no amount of power can get him around New York traffic.

He can't think about Neal being shot. However furious he is with him and however ready he was to shoot him when he had the gun on Fowler, he doesn't want Neal dead. He doesn't want to see Neal lying on a hospital bed, doesn't want Neal to have another scar. There have been enough of those.

Instead he thinks about the crimes Neal has committed to bring them here. The music box: conspiracy to commit felony theft, accessory to felony theft, obstruction of justice. The gun: misdemeanor theft, unlawful possession of a firearm by a felon. Today, chasing Fowler: work-release boundary violation (theft of federal property, to get the key), trespass, vandalism, unlawful use of a firearm by a felon, attempted battery, resisting arrest. The terms scroll through his head effortlessly.

Neal could go back to prison for the rest of his life, and Peter has no idea what to do about their personal situation even if he's confident there will be no investigation. Neal almost shot a man today and by habit Peter does not allow that kind of man in his home, does not choose to consort with murderers. For all the power he has over Neal, this new side of him is terrifying. However desperate Neal was back when Peter was chasing him, he never resorted to this, which is something, but the fact that he _can_ changes everything.

Diana has covered their bases, and he owes her big time for this. The only witness to any of the real, hardcore crimes outside of him and Diana and Fowler (who won't talk) is the guard, the rent-a-cop who trailed him when he was chasing Fowler into the second floor of the museum. He'd told him to let the FBI handle it and the guy was obviously scared out of his mind; Peter doesn't think he'll talk.

But if there were an investigation, then there would be other charges. Charges against Peter. The music box: conspiracy to commit theft of evidence in a federal investigation, obstruction of a federal investigation, misuse of FBI resources. The cover-up: obstruction of a federal investigation, abetting a felon, failure to report a crime in progress, accessory after the fact to attempted battery. Neal himself: fraternization, prisoner abuse, sexual assault. No matter how willing Neal was, consent can't legally be granted by a felon in custody. Elizabeth could be charged as well, and he won't allow that. Peter might go to prison, but he will make damn sure his wife doesn't. He'd rather perjure himself and tell them she knew nothing about it.

None of this will happen, but it could. And still it would be preferable to running up the stairs in June's house, the maid looking after them in shock at the drawn guns, and bursting into Neal's apartment to find Neal in a pool of blood on the floor.

The relief that floods through him when he sees Neal alive and whole tells him two things:

Neal will get away with this because Peter can't help it, can't end this now. He might be angry but when this mess is over, the first time Neal begs him, Peter will say yes.

And there are worse crimes Peter would commit than he already has, for Neal.

Both frightening, but not nearly so frightening as the look on Neal's face when he tells them he wasn't alone in Akhiro's shop.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Brief discussion of suicide -- suicidal ideation, mostly.

They found Mozzie almost before they knew he was lost.

When Neal couldn't reach him by phone, Peter made one call, to Mike Shattuck. Shattuck promised to put out an APB, a search for John Does in the hospitals and in the morgues, and a protective custody order. 

"There's a lot of short bald guys in New York," Mike said dubiously.

"Just do what you can," Peter replied.

"Who is this guy, Peter?"

"Friend of Neal Caffrey's," Peter answered. "He's a witness in an ongoing murder investigation."

"Ah, that one you stole off us?" Mike said knowingly. Peter hesitated.

"Stole?" he asked.

"Yeah. The junk shop, one of your guys had it handed off to the FBI. Jones, he's a go-getter. That's the one, right?"

"That's the one," Peter agreed, reaching out to put a hand on Neal's chest as he paced. He shoved him into a chair, not gently. Neal stared up at him.

"Well, friend of Caffrey's, friend of ours. You'll hear as soon as we have anything," Mike said, and hung up. Peter put the phone in his pocket and crossed his arms, staring down at Neal. Diana hovered in the background, obviously uncertain what to do.

"Diana, get ahold of Jones. He grabbed the murder for us. Find out what he knows," Peter said. She gave him a relieved look and stepped out onto the terrace.

"I never -- " Neal began, and Peter held up a hand.

"Where would he go?" he asked. Neal looked down at his hands. "Neal, where would Mozzie go?"

"Probably one of his safe-houses," Neal said. "I don't even know all of them. Maybe Winter, that's nearby. Or Monday, if he knew he wasn't safe. He'd answer the phone for me," he added. "He would, Peter, we..." he made vague circles in the air with his hands. "There must be something we can _do_."

"Little late for that. You not having shot at Fowler would have helped," Peter replied.

"I'm sorr -- "

"Save it, Neal, I don't want to hear it." Peter rubbed a hand through his hair, frustrated. "I should have known. I shouldn't have trusted you to be anything but what you are. I didn't think you'd break out a gun, Neal, I really didn't."

Neal kept silent, head bowed.

"I wish I knew what you were thinking," Peter said, more quietly. "And don't even bother telling me you weren't. You planned this. You've spent days arranging things to suit you. You knew Fowler would be there, and you knew I'd be there, and you picked up the gun anyway."

"I can't be that hard to figure out," Neal answered, not raising his head. It surprised Peter but, then, he supposed Neal was right. He should have put him in custody as soon as the music box went missing. He was supposed to be there when Neal slipped and fell. That was part of their deal, as far back as the day he'd shot Carruthers and dragged Neal to safety down a fire escape. If this was Neal's failure it was his too, and he was taking it out on someone who only carried half the blame.

His phone beeped. Mike. Peter answered.

"Got your boy," Mike said, sounding wary. "GSW at Lenox Hill Hospital matches the description, down to the clothes."

"Thank you, Mike," Peter said. "Can you get -- "

"Squad car's on its way. Guy's in surgery, I'll have cops on his room as soon as he's out. No word on condition but I'll have EMS meet you there."

"I'll have relief there within the hour. We're on our way," Peter said, and hung up, waving at Diana. She hung up too and came back inside, curious.

"Mozzie's at Lenox Hill," he said. "He's been shot."

Neal looked up, hard-eyed. "ER or morgue?"

"Surgery. Come on," Peter said.

He put the emergency lights on the Taurus and they managed to tear their way up to the hospital in what was probably record time, for Manhattan. His badge got them far enough through the red tape that he, at least, could get a look and confirm it was Mozzie; when he came out, he knew Neal could read it on his face.

"He's still in surgery. They think he's doing well," he said, as Neal came forward.

"What does that mean?" Neal demanded, trying to get a look past Peter down the hallway, before the ER doors closed. "Doing well, he was _shot_."

"They're doing what they can," Peter insisted. A large, burly-looking nurse approached them. "Calm down before we get thrown out."

"Where was he shot?" Neal asked.

"Sir?" the nurse interrupted, offering Peter a clipboard. "Do you have any information on this patient?"

"Yeah, yeah," Peter muttered, accepting it. "Listen, do we have to do this now?"

"He's allergic," Neal blurted. "Lactose. Penicillin. He's A-positive blood type."

"Neal, calm down," Peter said, trying to push him back towards the chairs. Diana took Neal's shoulder in one hand, but Neal shrugged it off.

"You can't put him in the system," Neal said, his voice low, reaching for the clipboard. "He'll freak out. Look -- "

"Neal," Peter warned.

"Give me some time, I can forge insurance papers for him -- "

"Neal!"

" -- pay for his care, I have access to bank accounts -- "

Peter tossed the clipboard on a chair and fixed his left hand around Neal's throat, thumb pushing his jaw shut. Neal swallowed against his palm. Diana looked shocked, but it barely registered.

"Shut up," Peter hissed, digging out his handcuffs. Neal stared in surprise as he cuffed Neal's wrists in front of him, left hand still holding his throat. "Mozzie's a _witness_. He's under the aegis of the FBI. He has a protective detail. This isn't about you right now or whether you're scared or angry. This is about Mozzie. You understand me? Because you're about half an inch from going into a cell at Federal Plaza for the foreseeable future."

"Boss," Diana said quietly. Peter released his throat, and Neal, still looking bewildered, sank down into a chair. He picked up the clipboard, awkward with his wrists cuffed together, and took the cheap hospital pen out from the little clip at the top. Peter watched as he wrote a name on the form, and then flipped to the medical history. Diana sat down next to him, staring at Peter. After a few seconds, she took out her keys and took the cuffs off Neal, passing them back to Peter over his head. Peter sighed and walked away to check in with Jones, and then call Elizabeth.

***

Mozzie came out of surgery not long after Neal finished filling out his history, at least what he knew of it. He knew a surprising amount, actually. Peter got them in to see him, and Neal just stood and stared down at Mozzie while a doctor told Peter what they knew, a lot of talk Neal only half-listened to. He heard the doctor ask if Neal was the next-of-kin.

After a while it went quiet. Neal guessed they'd gone. He sat down next to Mozzie's bed and carefully rested his arms on the edge, watching his chest rise and fall, shallow but constant.

Mozzie had been shot, and there was nothing Neal could do, and it was worse than Peter being hurt because you couldn't ever really believe a hundred percent that Peter would die. Neal couldn't, anyway. Mozzie was different. Mozzie was vulnerable in weird places, strong in ways you wouldn't expect but easy to hit if you knew how to aim. Mozzie had been shot and it was Neal's fault.

Neal closed his eyes and tried to breathe.

He was still concentrating on breathing when he heard the door open. Peter, calling him back down to reality. 

"There's nothing you can do for him here," Peter said, and at least his voice was gentler than it had been. "But there's something you can do out there."

Neal turned, confused for a minute; Peter just walked away, expecting he would follow. And he did, because he always did. Where else would he go? Peter seemed less furious, at least, as he led Neal out of the hospital and back to his car.

They were halfway to the Federal Building before Peter spoke. Neal started at the sudden noise, hiding it badly.

"I'm sorry," Peter said, glancing at him as they stopped at a red light. "I know you were worried about Mozzie."

"It was probably right," Neal replied, shrugging. "I shouldn't have flipped out."

Peter's thumbs moved on the steering wheel, thoughtful. "No. But. This isn't your fault. I never meant to imply it was. I know that you're -- we're trapped in this. You're caught in it, and if I'm gonna get you out, then I'm in it too. I need your head in the game, Neal, not back in that hospital room. Not blaming yourself for Mozzie being shot."

Neal nodded. "When we were -- once, we were...working," he said, and saw Peter raise an eyebrow. "I took a bad header, and we had a window of time that was closing fast. Mozzie made the choice to leave me behind, come back for me on the way out. He gets it. He knows you have to build walls. He -- I learned from him. I'm in. If you want me."

Peter frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"For all I know, we're going back to Federal Plaza to lock me up," Neal said, hoping his voice was steady.

"I told you. You can help. This...look, I took care of the museum problem. You clearly get the consequences of what happened. We have to get past this, Neal, or things are going to fall apart. So let's just...mark it as done."

"Clean slate?" Neal asked lightly, because if he tried to make it serious he'd just sound desperate.

"Clean slate," Peter said. "Let's get Larssen and figure this out."

"And us?" Neal asked.

"Us involves Elizabeth. That part...we'll talk," Peter said firmly.

It was really the best Neal could hope for.

***

Chasing down Larssen was good. It kept their focus where it should be, on the work.

Peter kept Neal's map up, checking it occasionally, but Neal needed a long leash for this job, and right now Peter was just as glad to have him out of the office. Neal needed some time to work out where he stood, and Peter needed some time to get himself under control. Grabbing Neal like that, in the middle of a public place, in a hospital, in front of Diana -- that wasn't okay. In any sense of the word.

By the time Neal checked in to tell him Mozzie was awake (thank God; Peter liked the guy, but more importantly he was a lifeline to Neal's sanity, badly needed) Diana had burned Larssen's aliases and they had nothing to do but wait. He was looking forward to a glass of wine with Elizabeth, and possibly one night of peace before they had to talk about and with Neal, but he was just getting into the car when his phone rang again. Neal.

"Yeah?" he answered, plugging the phone into the jack in the dashboard.

"Am I on carphone?" Neal asked.

"Neal, what is it?" Peter replied, rubbing his eyes. "It's been a long day."

"It's not over yet," Neal said. "Can you pick me up?"

"Neal -- "

"I just got roughed up by Larssen, Peter," Neal said, and Peter could hear the barest hint of anxiety in his voice. " _Please._ "

"Are you okay?" Peter asked, pulling out of the parking garage with more haste than grace. "Where are you?"

"I'm fine. We need to talk," Neal said.

When he pulled up at the intersection Neal named, Peter found him sitting on the curb, hat hung off one knee, his other hand holding the back of his head. Neal didn't look up when the Taurus pulled up; Peter put on the flashers and then waved his badge at the guy who honked a horn behind him when he got out.

"Neal?" he asked, crouching next to him. Neal looked up and let go of the back of his head; his hand was dotted with blood, but his eyes were clear. "Come on, stand up."

Neal stood under his own power, looking more shaken than injured. Still, Peter opened the trunk and dug out the first-aid kit, passing him a cold pack. Neal snapped the capsule to activate it and pressed it to his head, nodding thanks before climbing into the passenger's seat.

"Larssen hit you?" Peter asked, pulling back out into traffic.

"Just shoved me around. Being fair, I shoved first," Neal said.

"Can't take my eyes off you for a minute," Peter grumbled.

"Obviously," Neal snapped.

"Hey, you don't get to shout at me," Peter retorted.

"Sorry, just -- ignore me," Neal muttered, bending his head a little and staring out the window.

"You want to tell me what happened?" Peter asked, after a minute.

"Not in the car."

Peter could have picked a fight; Neal seemed to have a thing against talking in cars and he was pretty sure he could have started a yelling match between them right there in the Taurus, but frankly he was too damn tired. So he concentrated on driving, and let it go.

***

Neal could tell Elizabeth was surprised to see both of them when they arrived, but she accepted it with her usual calm. Peter walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water; Elizabeth just reached out and patted Neal's hand, quietly.

"He still angry with you about the shooting?" she asked.

"He told you about that, huh?" Neal replied. It still baffled Neal, the idea that you could have someone you just...told everything to, and they still loved you. Obviously it worked, though, at least if you found the right person.

"Yep. He called about Mozzie, too. I'm glad to hear he's awake. I was going to call tomorrow and see if he wanted a care package. Anything he likes in particular?"

"I don't think you can smuggle wine into the Intensive Care ward," Neal said. Elizabeth smiled. "Look, Peter's pissed at me and I'm pretty sure I gave him a lot of good reasons. Are we -- he said we had to talk, and now's not the time, but..."

She smiled, reassuring and warm, and Neal felt some of the fear ebb away. "It's not okay, sweetie, but it will be. Believe it or not, I understand why you did it."

Neal gave her a sharp look.

"Peter has lived with the law for fourteen years. Sometimes it's all he sees," she said quietly. "I have a broader picture than he does. He's going to be difficult about this. I don't have to be."

"He's been getting that water for a long time," Neal said, equally quiet. Elizabeth reached up and rubbed his cheek, affectionate.

"Well, he does know when to give someone five minutes," she said, just as Peter emerged.

"How's your head?" he asked. Neal felt the back of his skull, fingers probing delicately; it was scraped from the brickwork, bruised from where Larssen had slammed him against the wall.

"Think it's okay," he said, letting his hand fall. "Larssen offered me a deal."

"A _deal_?" Peter asked.

Neal sipped the water slowly as he explained what had happened -- the offer Larssen had made, information in return for help in getting out of New York, the link between Mozzie's near-miss and Kate's death.

"You make that deal, a killer walks free," Peter said, in his best Lecturing The Probies voice. "Neal, you can find your revenge in the justice, it's there -- "

"I know," Neal murmured, and when the impact of the words hit Peter, he was rewarded with a small smile. It bloomed large when Neal added, "This time, we do it your way."

Elizabeth, looking back and forth between them, closed the portfolio she was working on with a decisive snap. "I think I'm going upstairs," she said brightly. Peter glanced at her, questioning.

"Your way," she told him, kissing his cheek, "is very complicated, and I think I'd be a third wheel in this case. Babe," she added, tugging on Neal's shirt so he'd bend enough that she could kiss him, too, "be good. Make it better. Okay?"

"Okay," he said, though he wasn't sure he even could. When she was gone, and they could hear her footsteps on the floor above, Peter studied him for a while.

"I didn't want to do this tonight," he said, walking away from the table, towards the bookshelf. "But I think maybe we have to."

"This?" Neal asked. Peter shot him a sardonic look. "Okay. This."

"There's this one big problem, and we're going to work it out," Peter said, taking something wrapped in cloth out of his jacket. He set it down on the table and pulled the cloth away.

Neal stared down at the gun lying on the cloth like it might bite him. The one he'd fired; the one he'd nearly killed Fowler with. A second later, a cleaning kit landed on the table next to it.

"This is your gun now," Peter said. "Clean it."

"Peter -- "

"No, Neal. You stole it, you fired it, it's yours. You might not have a license or be legally allowed to carry it, but that doesn't matter here. You're going to clean it, and we're going to put it in the safe with Elizabeth's gun, and when hers goes back to the lockup, yours does too."

"No, Peter, you know I don't -- "

"Are you going to fight me on this?" Peter asked carefully.

Neal glanced up at him, then looked back at the gun, all gleaming metal and danger. On the other hand, the look in Peter's eyes was much more dangerous right now.

Neal made a decision. He sat down and pulled the gun over to him, opening the cleaning kit.

***

Peter exhaled, slowly, silently, when he saw Neal pick up the gun. Normally his first instinct on seeing firearms in Neal's capable hands was not relief, but this was at least a step. He had no idea where they were going to go with this, but Neal needed to own his mistake, and he needed to understand pulling a trigger had far-reaching consequences.

He came and sat down across from him as Neal hinged the barrel open and popped the cylinder out sideways. He carefully unloaded it, setting one bullet on the cloth, then two. Peter stared at them; Neal, busy cleaning the barrel, didn't seem to notice as Peter's mind went through the various possibilities this presented.

"Two bullets," Peter said finally, and Neal's hands froze with a cleaning rag halfway down the barrel.

"Yeah," Neal said carefully.

"Two plus one fired," Peter repeated. This was an immediate roadblock, sudden and frightening. "Neal, does that mean what I think it means?"

"I didn't want a full clip," Neal said. "I didn't want to risk hurting anyone else."

"One for a warning shot, one for Fowler..." Peter picked up the second bullet Neal had ejected from the cylinder. "Was this one to make sure you finished the job?"

Neal snorted. "Sure. Why not."

"Neal."

"I didn't know," Neal said, and he looked up at him, blue eyes clear. "If I had to, I wanted to make sure -- " he paused and swallowed. "No, it wasn't for Fowler."

He bent back to the gun, carefully pulling the cloth out of the barrel. Peter thought he must have cleaned the revolver before he fired it; the cloth came out almost spotless.

"You think about suicide a lot?" Peter asked quietly, as Neal picked up a narrow wire brush.

"Jesus Chr -- no, Peter, I don't think about suicide a lot," Neal retorted, setting the gun down, brush still in his other hand. "I don't think about it ever, but clearly I was having some kind of _psychotic break_ so if you could cut me an inch of slack -- "

"You almost shot someone," Peter said. "You would have, if I hadn't been there. Would you have killed yourself?"

Neal shrugged, picking up the gun again, beginning to scrub the cylinder and the extractor rod.

"No, Neal, this is important, you don't get to do your sulky kid act," Peter said. "Would you?"

"I don't know." Neal set the brush aside and picked up another cloth, wiping away minute traces of grit. 

Peter rubbed his face with one hand. "I genuinely don't know what to do with you," he said finally. Neal didn't look up. "I'd chain you to a therapist's couch tomorrow if I thought it'd do you a damn bit of good, but it won't, because you're you. Short of limiting your radius to June's house, I can't think of a single way to stop you from doing whatever the hell you want to do. Even then you might cut and run, just to spite me."

"What do you want me to say?" Neal asked, opening the bottle of gun oil. "No. I don't think about killing myself. I don't want to. I just wanted it to be over and I didn't know what I'd be on the other side." He gave Peter a hesitant, sidelong smile. "Turns out I didn't need to worry, so what's the point of worrying now?"

"The point is that it's not over. And I'd rather put you back in prison than risk this again, but you'd just break out..." Peter bowed his head, lacing his fingers across his neck. "I never should have taken you out of prison in the first place."

" _Peter --_ "

"I never should have gone after you the second time. I should have let someone else chase you," Peter continued. "Then you'd still be out there, probably. Maybe you could have saved Kate. And I wouldn't be sitting here worrying you're going to break our goddamn hearts. Jesus, Neal," he said, leaning back, staring at the ceiling.

Neal was silent; when Peter finally leaned forward again, lowering his head, Neal had the heels of his hands pressed to his eyes, elbows propped on the table. Gun oil glistened on his fingertips.

"I don't know how to fix this," Neal said. "The music box, Kate, Fowler, Diana's ready to kill me, I fucked it up with you, Mozzie got _shot_ , I can't fix it. I don't know how."

Peter tucked his fingers under Neal's palm and pulled one of his hands down. Neal was staring at the table, dry-eyed but obviously panicking. He spread Neal's hand flat, palm up, on the table, and wiped the oil off his fingertips with one of the cleaning cloths.

"Is Mozzie angry with you?" he asked. Neal shook his head. Peter bent one of Neal's fingers forward, curling it into his palm. He curled a second one over. "Diana works for me. You don't work for her. She is not your problem."

"Peter, this is -- "

Peter pinned Neal's hand by the wrist when he tried to move. Neal stilled.

"Fowler is my problem now," Peter continued, curling a third finger over. "We have the formula for the music box, it's back where it belongs."

He curled Neal's little finger, then covered the loose fist with his hand.

"If you're serious about fixing everything else, then it's just -- time and trust," he said. "We fucked this up together, Neal. We'll fix it together. The rest is just guilt. It's useless. Ignore it. The only thing it does is prove you're a decent human being."

"Oh, great, kick me while I'm down," Neal murmured. Peter smiled.

"Sorry, pal, get used to it," he said. "You staying tonight?"

Neal looked up sharply. Peter met his gaze, held it.

"Is it on offer?" Neal asked cautiously.

"If I thought this was an act, it wouldn't be," Peter told him, letting go of his hand. "I know you better than that. What, you thought we'd ditch you after all this?"

"You wouldn't be the first," Neal said.

Peter shook his head. "I don't run."

Neal carefully wiped down the gun, eyes avoiding the two bullets lying on the cloth, and stood up, walking to the lockbox on the bookshelf in the living room. He punched in the code, caught the lid when it opened, and put the gun inside, next to Elizabeth's.

"Come on," Peter said, heading for the stairs. He heard the box click shut and the soft beep as it locked itself, then Neal's footsteps following.

Upstairs, Elizabeth was already in bed; she didn't react when she heard them undressing, but raised her head sleepily when Peter slid in next to her -- curled her body around his, seeking warmth.

"Okay?" she murmured softly.

"Okay," Peter answered, as Neal got into the bed as well -- uncertain, hesitant, resting a hand on Peter's chest lightly. Peter turned his head and tugged on Neal's hair, pulling him closer. Pressed his lips to Neal's forehead and stayed that way, Neal still and quiet under his touch.

"When we were chasing you," Peter began softly, too softly for Elizabeth to hear, "we had a profiler who asked if he could do a workup on you. Just to see. I said okay."

"I read it," Neal answered, surprising him. "When Mozzie requested the files on me. He said he thought I should read it."

"So you know what it said."

Neal nodded. "Sociopathic thug who uses sex to manipulate people. Did you believe it?"

"No."

"I didn't think you would."

"The thing is..." Peter shifted a little, tipping his head slightly to look down at Neal's closed eyes. "I'm not blinded by you, by this. I knew you before this, like I knew not to believe in your profile. I trust my judgment when it comes to you. When something suddenly hits me in the face like this, and I think _Jesus, maybe I don't know him at all_ \-- it shakes me up."

"I can try to be truthful, but it's dangerous for all of us," Neal said.

"In the things that matter -- try," Peter told him. "Get some rest."

"M'kay," Neal said, but it was a long time before the tension ebbed out of his body and he slept. 

***

Neal knew that Peter wouldn't make a very good con man.

Peter was good at lying, under specific conditions, but you couldn't have conditions as a con man. And, setting aside a certain ironclad morality about the man, Peter didn't have the necessary detachment to steal from someone if he liked the look of them. To earn the maliciousness of Special Agent Peter Burke you had to have done something first. Peter had a thing about the innocent.

On the other hand, Neal often thought Peter would make a brilliant _architect_ of cons. Peter had a twisty brain that couldn't support lying and stealing but could absolutely work out what lie to tell and how to steal. Peter wouldn't be a Neal Caffrey; he'd be a James Moriarty.

When Larssen made his move, allowing himself to be arrested by Peter only to be 'exonerated' when Peter's print was found on his gun, Neal's first thought was that Peter had been out-conned. It was a furious, defensive thought, and the strength of it surprised him. It simmered in the back of his mind throughout the day and into the next, this anger that Peter had to play by the rules but Larssen could cheat all he wanted. A new experience; back in the bad old days, Neal had been happy enough for Peter to follow procedure while he slipped through Peter's fingers each time. And it wasn't that he was on the side of the law, exactly. It was just so damn unfair. Larssen was _dangerous_. 

So once they'd figured out that Larssen was working with Frederick Bilal, a powerful man who could nonetheless be manipulated with more ease than Larssen, the first idea that sprang into Neal's head was a con.

The only shock was that Peter agreed.

"So -- how do we flip Bilal on Larssen?" Peter said, picking up the coffee the barista slid across the counter. He caught Neal's too and handed it to him, sipping his own thoughtfully. "We'd have to incriminate Bilal, give him a reason to spill. You said -- having someone else arrest him," he said. Neal guided him to an outside table, because Peter's brain was mostly taken up with downshifting, and he wasn't paying attention to where he was going. "What's your plan?"

Neal gave him a slightly sheepish look. "I didn't really have one yet."

"I can't just tell Diana to go after him," Peter said, barely paying attention. "She's not my puppet and she has to have reason. And not something obtained illegally," he added, when Neal opened his mouth. "So we need to arrange for Diana...or Jones, he's reliable too, he'd go along -- they have to catch Bilal..." his eyes unfocused. Neal watched, fascinated. "Bilal comes to a place we arrange with whatever he's smuggling..."

"Easiest way to do that is convince him he needs to bring it to Larssen," Neal put in.

"Way ahead of you," Peter said. "Sara's voice analysis software, could that be rigged to reproduce specific personal vocal tones?"

"No, but I bet she has something that could," Neal said.

"Even if she doesn't, she has an audio rig we can use," Peter said. "We spook Bilal into contacting Larssen -- got to make him use a phone we designate -- " He glanced at Neal. "Following?"

Neal nodded. "I'll talk to Sara. You'll still need some FBI tech -- "

"Jones can get that, we need to bring him in on this anyway. Can you think of a way to disable Bilal's cellphone?"

"Without stealing it?" Neal asked.

"Preferably," Peter drawled.

"Mozzie might still have his jammer. Technically it's not illegal, but only because they haven't banned that specific model," Neal admitted.

"Close enough. Once we flip Bilal on Larssen..." Peter gave him a sudden smile. "Then the fun starts."

Neal wasn't surprised Peter already had the framework of a functioning plan in place by the time they split up, Neal to recruit Sara (or at least her equipment) and Peter to talk to Diana and Jones. Perhaps the speed with which he'd adapted was a little scary, but he'd known Peter would be good at this.

Neal liked to play with reality, imagining what-ifs and might-have-beens. He'd had fun pretending Peter was a millionaire accountant; there was something solid at the core of him that made changeability easy, because Peter would be himself no matter what he was. If things had gone differently, if the right criminal mentor had come across Peter Burke, or the situation of his life had changed...well. They had a con to run.

They had a _con_ to run.

Neal grinned for the rest of the day.

***

When Elizabeth broached the topic of Mozzie's care package to Peter, it was mostly just to confirm that she'd heard Mozzie right over the phone.

"He asked for gluten-free brownies," she said carefully, "and bendy straws. That's all."

"Oh, hence the..." Peter gestured to the kitchen, where eight 100-count boxes of bendy straws were sitting on the counter. Then he got a very strange look on his face and said, "Mozzie works with what he has."

"Maybe he's a germophobe," she said. "Scared of the hospital glasses?"

"Could be," Peter agreed. "Or he might be...I don't know, once he asked me for a shoelace and a magnet."

"And?"

"And the end result was ten grand in cash."

So, Elizabeth got out her box of wrapping supplies and a nice basket, put stickers on the brownies that cheerily read "Get Well Soon!" and wrapped the bendy straws in pretty ribbon. After all, there was no reason not to do the thing properly, if you were going to give someone eight hundred bendy straws.

(Neal was no more forthcoming than Peter had been. "He's definitely feeling better," was all he'd say.)

By the time she was ready to take his care package over to the hospital, Peter and Neal had a mission for her: recruit Mozzie into the crew they were forming, and bring him back to the house. Neal assured her that Mozzie, when motivated, would find some way to escape the hospital; the problem was motivation.

"Don't worry about it," she said, patting his cheek and nodding at Peter. "I've been lighting fires under him since our first date."

"I heard that," Peter called.

"Love you sweetie!" she called back, and went off to the hospital, the _Mission: Impossible_ theme playing in her head.

Mozzie really did seem delighted by the bendy straws. Convincing him didn't take much either; Neal might fall for Mozzie's announcement of intent to retire, but she could see Mozzie was already halfway to joining up.

"How do they plan on catching Larssen?" he asked, and Elizabeth swooped in for the kill.

"Oh, they'll figure it out," she said vaguely. "Honey, you need your rest. And hey, you...might actually like retirement," she added, glancing past him at the perfectly-placed elderly man sitting in a corner of the lounge, knitting.

"You know, I've always felt I was meant to leave my mark on the world," Mozzie said, turning back to her. "A lasting legacy, that sort of thing."

"Well, there's Neal," she said, smiling.

"Neal got caught," Mozzie sniffed.

"Yeah, but Peter's pretty smart, you have to get up early in the morning to put one over on him," she said. "He's running the con, you know."

"The _Suit?_ " Mozzie demanded. "No offense, but has he ever run an independent con before?"

She pursed her lips. "Well, no, but they're pretty much like stings, aren't they?"

"And Neal went along with -- of course he went along with it, he's _irrational_ about you," Mozzie said, as if irrational were the worst possible thing one could be. "You know they're heading straight into disaster, right?"

"Nah, they'll be fine. Listen, I should be going -- "

"Wait," Mozzie said, looking determined. "Clearly a guiding hand is needed. Take me to the Suit."

"Mozzie -- "

"No objections! I wish to see his Suitness at my earliest convenience," Mozzie declared. "Which is now."

"I don't think the hospital wants you traveling," Elizabeth said.

Mozzie leaned forward. "Mrs. Suit...I'm bustin' out."

Elizabeth managed, through sheer force of will, not to giggle.

That evening, the house was pleasantly full of people; it might not be the most orthodox dinner party they'd ever hosted, but it kept Peter's spirits up and kept Neal out of unsupervised mischief. She sat at the little breakfast table in the kitchen, working on the seating chart for an upcoming event, and listened to the low murmur of voices in the other room. Peter's voice dominated, along with Neal's, but she could hear Diana ask a question, Mozzie make a cynical remark, Sara and Jones chime in on occasion.

Peter had mentioned to her that Neal had a thing for Sara. What kind of thing, she wasn't certain. In her presence, he seemed to light up, but not necessarily in a way Elizabeth would have wanted for herself. Neal was performing for Sara, though she didn't know if he realized it.

Neal didn't perform for them. On the other hand, they wouldn't have wanted him to.

She heard, eventually, the scrape of chairs, the front door opening, voices saying goodbye. She came to the kitchen door just in time to see Neal and Mozzie disappearing out the back; everyone else was already gone. She leaned in the doorway and watched as Peter returned to the dining room, gathering up the scattered plates and glasses. He looked up, saw her, gave her a warm smile; she held the door back for him while he carried the remains of dinner into the kitchen, dumping them in the sink.

"All set for tomorrow?" she asked.

"Yeah," he answered, sounding a little troubled. "If it all goes off."

"Worried it won't?"

"I don't know," he said. He looked puzzled, perplexed, like he'd run up against something he couldn't take to pieces and figure out. He turned around and leaned against the sink, crossing his arms. "I told Neal, nothing illegal."

"And?"

"And his definition of 'nothing illegal' is a little broad," Peter admitted. "This is fraud, what we're doing. And tampering with a case. Diana's misusing her authority as an FBI agent, acting on illegally-obtained information. If we fail..." He ran a hand over his face. "Enough. We won't."

She wrapped her arms around his waist. He uncrossed his own, holding her shoulders. "I know you won't," she told him.

***

Neal always looked younger, out of his suits. Dressed to the nines he was a little bit like a time traveler, someone who'd just mistakenly stepped out of a movie from the sixties. When he wasn't playing Rat Pack Caffrey -- in a t-shirt or a sweater, khakis, in a towel or in nothing, Neal barely looked his age. Wearing a leather jacket, one of Peter's old shirts, and a pair of jeans, sitting on their sofa, he looked like a grad student, some mid-twenties kid writing his dissertation.

He'd taken to stealing Peter's clothes, never his suits or new things but t-shirts with fraying hems or pajamas Peter had forgotten he even owned. Elizabeth wasn't sure if it was some kind of symbolic gesture, or if Neal just put his hands on whatever was available and didn't care overmuch that everything Peter owned was a size too big for Neal. Peter didn't seem to care (it was folly to think he hadn't noticed) so Elizabeth kept out of it.

Still, she liked to see him out of the flashy suits, and in her husband's clothes. And the look he gave her that day, when she took the phone out of his hands and played wife to the man on the other end of the line, getting him off the phone with a dirty proposition, well. The look didn't hurt either, one part surprise to two parts lust.

Once they were out of the house -- Sara had her mission and Peter and Neal had theirs -- she found herself wandering aimlessly, distracted, trailed around by a very confused-looking Satchmo. The hard part was probably behind them, but these men were dangerous. Normally she tried not to worry, and normally she succeeded...but normally Peter carried a badge, and neither of them were chasing the kind of man who could be hired to kill someone.

She got a text from Neal ( _Con went off, XOXO_ ) at the same time a picture message came in from Diana. She opened it, perplexed, and then stared in even more perplexity at what looked like Peter on a horse. He looked good, but she couldn't remember where the horse was supposed to come into the con.

When she called, Peter picked up on the second ring; from the sound of it he was in the car.

"Hey, hon," he said. "I was about to call. The sting worked, Larssen's in custody."

"Were you on a horse?" she asked. There was a long silence.

"Did Neal text you?" he asked.

"Diana sent me a photo," she answered. "You look very heroic, but -- a horse?"

"It's a long story."

"I can't wait to hear it," she told him. "Where are you?"

"Headed back to the Bureau. We have to process Larssen. Neal's on his way home, I guess Mozzie had a breakthrough. Hey, you know what Larssen was smuggling?" he asked.

"Peter, I'm not letting the horse go."

He sighed. "I didn't think you would. Nazi dinnerware."

"Excuse me?"

"Larssen. He was smuggling flatware out of the country. Little swastika stamps on the back. I asked Neal to see if he could source it, figure out what the story is there."

"Okay," Elizabeth said. "You've successfully distracted me from the horse, well done."

"I promise, I'll tell you the whole story tonight. Right now I gotta go humiliate Larssen."

"Hmm. Shame him for me," she said.

"With pleasure. Love you."

"Love you too."

Peter disconnected, and Elizabeth sat down on the couch. Satchmo came over and rested his head on her knee, apparently glad she'd finally decided to settle somewhere.

"Your father has the strangest job ever," she told him. Satchmo whined. "Okay. Let's go for a walk."

***

Peter had interrogated Larssen once, already, and that time he'd barely kept a lid on his anger. This man had shot Mozzie, had hurt Neal, had been the shadow pulling Fowler's strings and, by association, Peter and Neal's. And that was before he'd found out Larssen had also framed him for evidence tampering.

Now, though, with perspective -- with the law firmly on his side and Larssen looking at hard time no matter how things turned out -- he felt calmer, infinitely more in control than he had. He sat down across from Larssen and laid it out, quickly, plainly. They'd won, and Larssen knew it.

He was not prepared for the name _Vincent Adler_ to come up. He knew it, of course; he hadn't been assigned the case, and at the time he'd been just as glad to let someone else take it, because Adler was a ghost who'd disappeared completely and Peter didn't like banging his head against a brick wall (at the time he'd been doing enough of that chasing Neal).

Behind him, in the conference room, Jones was processing Larssen for detainment, making calls to the US Attorney's office to strike a protection deal, but Peter didn't bother listening; if this was a bite on Adler he needed to see about having the case moved to his jacket, getting the files out of storage, getting himself up to speed on the research.

"Peter," Hughes called, just as Peter was ducking into his office. He turned, distracted. "Glad I caught you. What's Larssen saying?"

"Gave us a name," Peter replied. "I need to do some research -- "

"Great. But before you dive in..." Hughes offered him a slim folder. "Just got this in from Sacramento. Investigation into the forgery issue we discussed."

Oh, Christ, if they were going to come after Neal right now -- that was the last thing any of them needed.

"Just an update. They're willing to trust your analysis," Hughes said, keeping his voice low. "But there's been chatter about other forgeries showing up. You need to stay on top of this."

"I'm on it," Peter said, accepting the folder. "But right now..." he jerked his head at Larssen, who was being walked out of the conference room.

"Good work on that," Hughes said. Peter suppressed the sardonic look he wanted to give him; Hughes had protected him often enough that he didn't deserve mistrust for doing his job this time around. "How's Caffrey?"

That did stop Peter in his tracks; Hughes treated Neal like an unwanted stepchild -- acknowledged his presence and expertise, but little else. He couldn't remember him _ever_ asking about him, unless it was for a case.

"Come on," Hughes said. "I know whatever happened today wasn't just good luck. Sara Ellis complains about you to Jones? No. So?"

Peter gave him a level look. "He did good work."

"Good. Let's get back on track."

"I agree completely," Peter said. Hughes clapped him on the arm and walked away. Peter retreated to his office and began the process of requesting a turnover of Adler's file. It didn't take much; it was verging on a cold case, by now, and the agent in question was happy to pass it off. Just like that, it was an official investigation -- no more sneaking around the Bureau, no more running prints or photographs on the sly, hoping Hughes wouldn't notice. Permission to chase Adler, as futile as it might be.

He arranged for the files to be sent to his office, checked his watch, and decided that between jumping off a horse and getting into a fistfight with an armed perp, he was probably okay to go home half an hour early. He said goodnight to Diana, asked her to pass along his thanks to Jones, and headed for his car.

Halfway home, he caught sight of a florist's sign out of the corner of his eye -- _Get Her A "Green" Gift!_ \-- and stopped so sharply the guy behind him blew his horn. He pulled over, parked, and walked inside.

***

"Honey?" Peter called when he got home, tossing his keys in the bowl by the door.

"Kitchen!" she yelled back. Satchmo burst through the door and scrambled up to him, giving him the nightly inspection. Peter bent to ruffle his ears and then ducked past him into the kitchen. Elizabeth was standing at the sink, scrubbing something; she shrieked when he wrapped his arm around her waist and lifted her up off the floor, but it was a pleased shriek. You could tell these things, after twelve years.

"I've come to sweep you off your feet," he said, bringing the flowers around in front of her with his other arm. He'd bought probably most of the azaleas in the shop; she squirmed out of his grasp, feet touching the floor again, but didn't pull away as she took the flowers from him.

"Just sweeping?" she asked, leaning back into him.

"Well, I suppose I could arrange to make love to you too," he allowed, and she laughed, setting the flowers down on the counter, turning --

And wrinkling her nose.

Less than romantic.

"What did you _do_?" she asked, patting down his shirt, fingering the smears of dirt leftover from his fight with Larssen.

"Horse," he said, waving a hand. She raised an eyebrow. "Uh. And a brief scuffle."

"A scuffle?" She crossed her arms. "You are not getting out of explaining the horse, mister. Go clean up, while I put the flowers in a vase."

"Yes'm," he said, kissing her quickly. "Then sweeping?"

"Then sweeping," she agreed. She couldn't be too mad; she grabbed his ass as he left the kitchen.


	16. Chapter 16

Neal didn't spend quite as pleasant an evening as Peter. Once he saw the fractal, he knew; when he said the name, Mozzie knew too.

"This is bad," Neal said, pacing, hands on his head, trying to think.

"That's the understatement of the year," Mozzie replied. "Stop it, you're making me twitchy."

"That's making _me_ twitchy!" Neal pointed to the fractal, but he did slump down into a chair.

"On the bright side, what's he going to do, shoot us?" Mozzie asked.

"Not funny, Moz."

"Hey, I'm the one who got shot, I get to make that joke," Mozzie pointed out. "Adler's kept you alive this long. He's probably not even interested in killing us now."

"Doesn't matter," Neal sighed. "He knows me, Moz. He's smart, he sees right through cons. He knows my moves."

"He knows your moves from eight years ago," Mozzie said. "You've learned a few tricks since then."

"Not enough," Neal shook his head. "He had to know I'm the guy everyone said had the music box. He'd have done his homework, you know how he was. He's probably seen the FBI file on me. No -- if he had Fowler in his pocket, he's _definitely_ seen the file on me."

"Complete with the Suit's history of you." Mozzie nodded.

"What does this fractal do?" Neal asked, waving a hand at the tray on which Mozzie had constructed the pure, mathematical shape the formula had produced.

"You don't know?"

"No. I saw them in his office, but I never knew what they were for. He treated them like art. I thought they were some weird hobby."

"And you didn't find out?" Mozzie sighed. "Neal -- "

"Know your enemy, I know, gimme a break, okay? It was eight years ago." He rubbed his face with his hands. "You have any clue? At all?"

"There are a lot of possibilities," Mozzie said, studying the design. "Medical classification, timekeeping -- music can create a fractal, as we have proof, but fractals can create music, too. Economic analysis, communications, image compression...I can look into it, but it's going to take time we don't have."

He paused, and Neal caught the hesitation. He looked up and saw Mozzie making his constipated _this is going to cause me grief_ face.

"What?"

"You don't know what Adler used the fractals for," Mozzie said slowly. "But you weren't the only con artist circling him."

"Alex."

"If we had a dossier on Adler, she definitely did. She was hacking his accounts, researching his acquisitions. She was working the South American angle, she might know," Mozzie ventured. "You sure you want to get her mixed up in this again?"

"Can't hurt to ask," Neal said, taking out his phone. "She did give me her number."

"Tread carefully," Mozzie warned him.

"Don't need to be told twice," Neal murmured.

"And let me know what you find out."

"You're not staying?"

"There's a safe-house with a reclining chair calling my name," Mozzie told him. "Don't worry, it's wheelchair-accessible."

"You think of everything, huh?"

"Something like that."

"Hey, Moz," Neal said, as Mozzie rolled the wheelchair towards the back hallway, where an ancient service elevator waited to take him creakily downstairs. "Thank you."

"Gratitude is the memory of the heart," Mozzie called.

"Massieu," Neal murmured, when he was gone.

Panic over Adler was warring with the adrenaline rush his body had been putting off since they finished the con; between running a con with Peter (and Sara and Jones and Diana and Mozzie and Elizabeth's surprisingly dirty phone voice) and seeing Peter take off on that horse --

He felt oddly numb, like there was a layer of something over his skin, blocking out sensation, and at the same time manic. Any other time he might have called Peter and begged to come over, but he was on uncertain footing there right now and he wanted Peter to make the first move again, to be sure it was still okay. He picked up the tray with the fractal on it, set it down again, moved it, hid it, got out his paints, put them away and got them out again, found a canvas and set it up; he hadn't intended to paint anything specific, but he let his hands do the work instead of his brain. He kept walking away from it to have a glass of wine or drum his fingers on the table or text Mozzie to make sure he got to his safehouse, but eventually something began to take shape.

By the time he'd worn himself out, he had half of a decent Monet. He collapsed in bed still smelling of turpentine and was out as soon as his head hit the pillow.

***

Peter woke, the morning after getting his badge back, to a note on the pillow: _The Finnegan dinner in Bridgeport tonight. Staying over, I'll be back tomorrow morning. Keep out of trouble, love you. El._

He groaned, wishing she'd woken him up to say goodbye, but a part of him was glad -- not that she was gone, but that he wouldn't be abandoning her for the day to go in to the office. Saturday it might be, but the FBI didn't work to a five-day week, and he had to get a handle on the Adler case as fast as possible.

Diana, he knew, preferred to work from home, or out in the field. Jones didn't like the van, but he liked it better than desk-jockeying at the office. Peter remembered being that way, when he was a junior agent, and maybe part of it was that he had an office while they just had desks -- but he liked his office. It kept him focused when he needed to do this kind of work, kept him confined in one place while he digested information and whittled it down to what was important.

The file on Adler was thick, but most of it was a snipe hunt. Endless accounts of leads tracked down to nothing, rumors that weren't true, claims that couldn't stick. It was like trying to collate and organize Elvis sightings. A small time crook trying to play off a big name for a deal said Adler was in Japan. A sex worker swept up in a vice raid said he'd paid her three grand for a night in a New York penthouse that he lived in like a bunker and never left. A former employee of the company said he'd heard Adler talking about buying property in South Africa.

Dead end. Dead end. Dead end. Finally he gave up on trying to cross-reference everything and just paged through, looking for something that would stand out --

And found it, paperclipped to the back of a folder, under a cold case declaration from Interpol.

He stared down at the photograph, disbelieving. Adler in the foreground, pointing at the camera and smirking; three men in the background. Two in gray suits, the uniform of Adler's personal bodyguards, and one man in a dark suit, hair swept over his forehead, casting a wary look at Adler: Neal Caffrey.

"Neal," he murmured, shaking his head. He took the photograph out of the file and set it on his desk, digging through the file box. There had been a company roster of Adler's firm in there somewhere, but he'd tossed it aside as irrelevant reference material. When he found it, he scanned the names, looking for Neal's aliases, but he only got four names down before he found something that stopped him in his tracks.

_Executive Assistant to Vincent Adler: Katherine Moreau._

Jesus Christ, Kate had been Adler's personal go-to girl. It didn't take him long to find the other name he was looking for, either.

_Acquisitions Associate: Nicholas Halden._

Neal and Kate had worked for Adler. And, six years later, Adler had started pulling Kate's strings, pulling Neal's strings through her. Or, no -- he'd used Larssen to manipulate Fowler to go after Kate, to get to Neal. Unless Kate had found Adler, somehow, improbably, and struck a deal for Neal's freedom.

He ran his hands through his hair, trying to think. There was no way to know until he knew what Neal and Kate had been doing, stalking this man who'd ripped off hundreds of people and disappeared without a trace. Until he knew precisely how they were connected, he couldn't know how to build an investigation.

His cell rang, Elizabeth showing up on the caller ID; he answered it, trying to move away from the case for her sake.

"Hey, hon," he said, covering up the photograph with the company roster. "How's Connecticut?"

"Stressful," she replied. "It's raining. Do you know how hard it is to have an indoor clambake?"

"I'm not sure I want to find out," he said.

"Well, it's not easy. How are you? Relaxing at home?"

"Mm, no, I'm at the office."

"Yeah, you had that _thinking about a case_ tone when you answered," she teased. "How's it going?"

"Slowly. I need to talk to Neal, something's come up in the research."

"Calling him in?" she asked. There was an odd note in her voice.

"Nope, think I'm going to surprise him. Probably be at his place tonight, if you need to get in touch."

She was silent.

"Hon?"

"Sweetie, you and Neal -- you're okay, right?" she asked.

"We're getting there."

"It's just...he seems a little scared of you."

"Yeah, well, I might have been a hardass at him. It'll be fine," he said.

"Okay. Trust you, love you. Tell Neal I love him too."

"I will. Love you."

He hung up and set the phone on the desk, thinking. She was right -- she usually was -- and he couldn't just barge in and interrogate Neal. Not right now. On the other hand, his usual _let's forget we've both been idiots_ move with Elizabeth, which consisted of being aggressively charming and buying her flowers, probably wasn't going to work on Neal. And would be weird, anyway.

A middle ground, then. Soft approach. And bribery that was obviously bribery, because Neal would see through it anyway (not like El didn't, but she appreciated the effort).

***

Claude Monet had a water garden at his house in Giverny, and he'd loved it like it was his child. In 1910, when the Seine overflowed and the flood waters rose, Monet grieved all winter, because he believed his garden was destroyed completely. It hadn't been, though many of the plants had rotted. Restoration took time.

Neal had gone to Monet's garden when he was in France, after the failed job with the music box. He was in the area, casing a private estate, and he couldn't have passed so close and not seen it for himself. He'd bought his ticket like a fresh-faced college kid on summer vacation, wandered around, tried to pull up images from his mental catalogue of the paintings and match them to the images in front of him.

He found he hated Monet's garden.

The paintings were just so much better. There were some emotions that couldn't be conveyed in the sharp lines of reality. Paintings were interesting. Plants were boring.

He was bent close to _his_ Monet, not a forgery but...an emulation, perhaps, when the knock came at the door. He'd been wondering, honestly, how long it would take Peter to put it together. The answer was apparently about twelve hours.

Peter had a paper bag and a distracted air about him. Neal watched him walk over to the painting, evaluate it, and then ask if it was a Monet. Well, he supposed that meant he was doing a good job imitating the style.

He also had a photo of Neal and Vincent together. Neal was torn between a twinge of painful nostalgia and just a plain twinge at his hair. Not the most flattering photograph.

Peter's plan was beer, cheap wine, and talking about Vincent. Neal wanted to talk about Vincent Adler about as much as he wanted a hole in the head, especially since it meant talking about Kate, but he could concede that Peter had the right to know. When Peter laid down his badge, Neal felt like they'd -- opened something, unlocked something. Like lifting the lid on the music box.

So he took out the fractal, and he sat down with the terrible wine, and he started talking. He told a good story, after all, and Peter had strong motivation to listen. He laughed at Mozzie's goatee, grinning when Neal told him how they'd set out to target Vincent -- _Adler_. He kept almost saying Vincent and then managing to catch himself at the last minute. If Vincent had killed Kate, then Neal needed even the small distance a last name could provide.

Besides, then Peter offered up a story of his own, and Neal felt like they'd slipped back into some kind of groove, like a gear falling into place.

"What was my nickname?" he asked, and Peter gave him a ridiculously fake blank look.

"What?"

"Come on. Hagen was the Dutchman before you ID'ed him, what was my nickname?"

"Don't recall," Peter bluffed.

"Too bad." Neal shook his head. "Sooner you remember, sooner we can move on."

"James Bonds," Peter said with a sigh.

Neal almost laughed out loud. "Bonds. James Bonds."

"Yes." Peter looked like he knew how much shit he'd just gotten into.

"You like another beer?" Neal asked. "Shaken, not stirred?"

"See, I knew it was a mistake telling you," Peter called, as Neal fetched the bottle from the fridge. "Believe me, yours was just one file in a giant stack of cases."

"Yeah," Neal said, offering him the beer. "But it was on top."

Peter raised an eyebrow at him. Neal, daring, leaned over and kissed him. Peter caught him by the back of the neck, held him there, and almost overbalanced in the chair when Neal pressed in close. Neal hauled them both back, thumping the legs of the chair down, pulling away regretfully.

"You weren't that good," Peter said, and Neal laughed.

"I'm always that good," he murmured.

"Stalling," Peter repeated. Neal raised his hands in defeat and sat down again. Then he paused.

"We had to bankroll my attendance at a charity dinner, to get Adler's attention," he said. "The idea was that I'd go to work for him, gain his trust, get his bank account password, and then Mozzie would rig a siphon. Not just intercepting a major wire transfer Adler was going to do -- if he timed it right he could have drained the account completely. We're talking billions here, Peter."

"Yeah, I've read the report on what Adler stole," Peter said quietly. Neal glanced at him, wondering if it was weird for him to hear Neal speak so openly about past crimes. Nobody else Neal had talked to about taking a rich guy for a billion dollars had ever been so very unimpressed.

"So, we cashed some bonds," Neal said. Peter cocked his head.

"Big mistake," he replied.

***

Peter was tired, and a little frustrated, and he'd talked to what felt like every bank manager in Manhattan, trying to get the word out about James Bonds. There had to be a more efficient way to do this, but the case was new to him and sometimes it paid to talk around, check on sources of information, see what the banks knew. Atlantic bonds had previously been thought unforgeable; Peter had an interview with Stewart Gless the following morning, which he was also not anticipating with delight, because Gless was reportedly furious about the forgeries and the NYPD's failure to do anything about them.

So when a young man caught up to him on the street and asked curiously about forgery, Peter bit down on his immediate surge of impatience. Talking to the public was a Good Thing. Maybe this guy knew something.

Good-looking guy, too; young, disorderly dark hair, wide blue eyes, preppy-yuppie clothes.

"Are you with the FBI?" the guy asked, looking at him with a hint of awe.

"Special Agent Peter Burke," Peter said, intrigued now.

"Wow," the man said. "I -- I just took some money out of the bank and I heard you talking about counterfeiting..."

"Your money's safe," Peter answered, sizing him up. This guy didn't know anything, but he looked fascinated, which was at least a little flattering. "I'm looking after counterfeit bonds."

"I have some bonds at home," the man continued, stepping forward again. "How would I know if they're not real?"

Peter gave him a second look-over. Maybe he was just impressed to be talking to an FBI agent -- happened sometimes, got old fast -- but he had the distinct impression this guy wanted something from him. Hard to know what. Felt like he wanted his phone number.

"I'm sure they're fine," he said firmly.

"Well, thanks again for all the hard work you're doing, Agent Burke," the man said, and pressed a sucker into his hand. "That's for you. Have a good day!"

Peter stood there, slightly confused by the encounter, studying the sucker warily. Odd gift to give a stranger on the street.

He'd been there for about thirty seconds, and was considering getting something to eat before he talked to the rest of the seemingly infinite number of banks in midtown, when the manager of the bank came running out.

"Agent Burke, thank god you're still here," she said. "Someone _just cashed_ a series of Atlantic bonds."

Peter shoved the sucker in his pocket and didn't even remember it until later, when the teller who sat with the sketch artist produced a portrait of a handsome young man with disorderly dark hair and wide eyes.

Then he laughed.

"Oh, this kid is fearless," he said, and went to add the sketch to the James Bonds file.

***

"Smooth move," Kate had said to Neal, at the end of the charity dinner. "Displacing Adler's date like that."

"Got me my five minutes," Neal answered with a grin. "Thanks for warning me about his girlfriend, by the way."

"Eh, I thought I'd see how you did," she shot back, with a grin just as wide as his. "So?"

"I guess if he hires me, you'll be the first to know," Neal told her. She considered him for a while. "What?"

"Two pieces of advice for you," she said, holding up two fingers. "One, that's not his girlfriend. She's just the next in a long line of women who aren't good enough to be his wife."

Neal raised an eyebrow.

"He's on the hunt for one -- a perfect, pretty, socially connected woman to give him an heir to the Adler fortune," Kate continued.

"How parochial."

"You'd think, wouldn't you. Two," she said, and tipped his chin up with her fingers, "he also likes pretty young men. Pretty, smart, _obedient_ young men."

"Three out of four ain't bad," he answered. Her fingers were warm and smooth. She nodded.

"See you around, Nick," she told him, and walked away. Neal waited until she was out of sight before he leaned against a wall and let out a long, slow breath. Then he hurried out to the valet service, where Mozzie was already waiting for him behind the wheel of a 'borrowed' luxury sedan.

"Home, Jeeves," he said, climbing into the back.

"How'd it go, Wooster?" Mozzie answered. Neal wasn't sure himself, but he thought he'd done okay.

"Things are looking up," he said. Mozzie chuckled and pulled out into traffic.

***

"Adler had a thing for you, huh?" Peter asked, sipping his beer, standing out on the terrace and staring at the cars passing below.

"Jealous?" Neal asked. Peter gave him a sardonic look. "Honestly? I don't know. He played it pretty close to the vest. Obviously. He liked my company. Gave me bonuses bigger than I deserved, bought me clothes. After a few months, I went everywhere with him."

"The wife-hunt?"

Neal shrugged. "He asked my opinion sometimes."

"And you said?"

"Good rule of a con -- never disagree with your mark," Neal told him. "I always found something about them that wasn't perfect, he said he thought so too, moved on to the next one." He watched Peter, whose mouth was moving, little twitches. "Just ask," he said.

"You sleep with him?"

Neal shook his head. "Couple of times I thought I might have to. Wouldn't have been a hardship. In case you haven't noticed, I have a thing for the powerful."

"Might have occurred to me," Peter agreed. "What about Kate?"

"Boyfriend," Neal reminded him. "Kate was -- you could tell she wanted something more than what she had. She wanted something new. Guess she thought Chicago would be it, but I'm cooler than Chicago."

Peter grunted, but he sounded amused.

"She was an artist. She wanted to be outside painting landscapes, sculpting in a studio, going to gallery openings," Neal said. "She didn't want to live her whole life under fluorescent lights. She wanted adventure. And a bankroll to support it."

"And you gave it to her."

Neal shrugged. "So did Fowler. Adventure got her killed. I get the moral, Peter."

"I wonder if you do," Peter replied.

***

There was one night, Neal wasn't sure if it even -- he didn't know if it _counted_ , or whatever.

It had been his gig from the start. Mozzie got wind of a very exclusive, very hush-hush private auction in the Hamptons, twelve beautiful Renaissance paintings being sold by a celebrity with a gambling problem. On his request, Mozzie had talked to a guy who'd talked to a woman whose boyfriend was the auctioneer, and arranged for an invite for Adler. Neal gave it to him for his birthday.

"I want you to come with me," Adler said, surprising him. "You know a little about art. Besides, you need to learn these things."

The auction was being held at a luxury resort, with a viewing of the paintings and a dinner beforehand, heavy on the alcohol -- always drove prices up. Neal inspected the paintings, lingering over a fake Titian, studying the brushwork. Ten of the twelve paintings were fakes, probably reproductions that had been commissioned to hang on the wall in place of the real paintings, stashed in a vault somewhere. It wasn't an uncommon practice, but the nerve of someone to salt the collection with two real ones and then sell ten fakes was almost...admirable.

"This one?" Adler asked in his ear, resting a hand on his shoulder as he eyed the detail work. Neal thought he could probably name the forger who'd done it.

"No," Neal said softly.

"No?"

"It's a fake," Neal told him. "I think most of them are. But look who's looking at it now," he added, straightening. "Over my shoulder. The man in the green tie. He's too cheap to be here to buy."

"He's like you," Adler said. "No offense."

"Exactly like me," Neal agreed pleasantly. "He's a consultant. And he's watching us. Smile big."

Adler gave him a giant, bright grin, and for good measure tipped his head at the painting.

"Which ones are real?" he asked.

"The small Botticelli panel next to me, and the Uccello on the end," Neal said. "Ignore the Botticelli. It's not his best work. If you're going to bid, bid on the Uccello."

Adler nodded. "Maybe you don't need to learn as much as I thought."

"I used to work as an auction page in high school," Neal said, which was almost true -- he'd done a stint as a page when he should have been in high school. They'd thought he was a twenty-one-year-old art student. Until he walked off with a small Rodin bronze and two medieval icon panels, anyway.

"The Raphael's not real, then?" Adler asked, looking unhappy.

"Sorry, boss, I can't guarantee it," Neal said.

"I almost want to bid on it anyway, it's gorgeous."

"Bid away. Just don't win," Neal advised. Adler nodded. "Have you looked at the Uccello yet?"

"No, why?"

Neal grinned. "It's Saint George slaying the dragon."

He watched Adler bid that night with a mixture of admiration and pride; pride that this was his boss, acting on his word, and admiration for the way he did it. The Uccello went for eight hundred thousand, not that much, but then that was part of Adler's strategy. And there hadn't been much interest, anyway. The painting wasn't pretty -- it wasn't _easy_ \-- and it wasn't especially famous.

There was a reception afterward, where the buyers could admire their new work and where a toast was raised to every artist. _To Titian. To Botticelli. To Lippi. To Raphael. To Bosch._ And, finally:

"To Uccello," Adler said. He was flush with his success, with having put one over on the others, and with a couple of glasses of champagne. When they lifted their glasses, he added, "And to you, Nick."

Neal saw a few raised eyebrows, but he ignored them, ducking his head and smiling, genuinely pleased and not a little worried. As people began to drift back towards the bar, he gently steered Adler out of the reception and into the quiet, lushly decorated hallway.

"Did I embarrass you?" Adler asked, as they walked to the elevator. "People should know about your good work, Nick, even if they don't know just how good it was tonight."

"I think we should both get some rest," Neal told him, pushing the button for their floor. "Early start tomorrow."

"Of course. Home, with our prize. I think I'll hang it opposite the Raphael; two warring saints, locked in combat," Adler said. The door dinged; they walked down the hall, toward the enormous suite Adler -- or rather, Kate, on his orders -- had booked for the night. Inside, Adler went to the bar and poured two scotches.

"To keep you from blushing like a virgin again," he said, offering one to Nick, "a private toast. To you, my finder of saints _and_ dragons."

"Thank you," Neal said, without the false modesty of earlier, and sipped the scotch. Adler finished his and wandered towards the windows, then into the bedroom with the glass wall looking out on the ocean. Neal was about to go into his own smaller, view-less room, when he heard Adler call his name.

"Boss?" he asked, ducking through the doorway. Adler had his jacket and tie off, and he was fumbling with his buttons.

"I think you were right about all the champagne," he said, looking rueful. "Would you mind helping me?"

"Of course," Neal answered, coming forward to undo the buttons one by one. He bent his head slightly -- he'd had some champagne himself, though not nearly as much as anyone else -- and worked them open. When Adler didn't move, he unbuckled his belt as well, sliding his pants over his hips before pushing the shirt off his shoulders.

"Thank you, Nick," Adler said in his ear, the innuendo unmistakable. He could see Adler wasn't even hard, but when he looked up he could also see the speculative, acquisitive desire in Adler's face.

He could have gone on his knees, shown this powerful, wealthy, demanding man just how good Nick Halden's mouth was, and for a second he considered it. He _wanted_ it, wanted to know what Adler would do. But it wouldn't get him closer to his goal -- in fact, if things were awkward in the morning, it might make it harder. So he stepped back slowly, turning the sheets down on Adler's bed.

"Come," he said, pulling Adler along by his shoulders, walking backwards. He helped him into the bed and pulled the covers up; Adler drifted a hand along his jaw, and when Neal didn't move, pressed a thumb between his lips. Neal nipped it, lightly, then leaned back and let it slide out of his mouth.

Back in his own room, he leaned against the wall and unbuckled his belt, slid his pants down his hips, ran a palm over his cock, hard and halfway there already. He came quick, silent, regretful, and staggered to the bed.

Later, much later, when he stole the Raphael, he found the Uccello in the same storage rack. He considered it -- they did make a nice matched pair, in contrast as much as in theme -- but he remembered Adler's soft dick and hard eyes and the way he'd said Neal's name, even if it wasn't really Neal's name, and what had happened after. He ran a finger across a corner of the painting, just to be able to say he'd touched it, and then left it behind. He didn't want that reminder.

***

Neal didn't tell Peter that story; it wasn't relevant, and not his finest moment either. It might have made Peter jealous, but given that he didn't seem to care that Neal had sex with his wife on a reasonably regular basis, probably not. Instead he followed Peter to the sofa, took a seat across from him, and told the end of the story. His fall. Conned by Adler, and then losing Kate, and then his arrest -- not that Peter didn't know that part.

"How was the sucker?" he asked Peter, who grinned.

"Green apple," he said. "It was disgusting. Best sucker I ever had."

Neal laughed a little. "Glad I could oblige."

The sun was already rising through the big french doors; Sunday in New York. Neal felt tired, and a little drunk, and mostly kind of sad. Reliving what seemed to him like a series of failures -- fun failures, but still, failures -- wasn't easy. Especially when Peter called him on withholding information. Peter knew Alex had been there, even after a night awake and a six-pack of beer.

"It's a fractal antenna," he admitted. "They're in everything now, there's one in your cellphone. This shape corresponds to a specific frequency -- for an emergency beacon," he said, though Alex had said that was just a guess.

"Emergency beacon?" Peter asked. "You're telling me that if we build a real one of these and we hook that up to a radio..."

"It's gonna lead us to a boat or a plane, or something that disappeared in the 1940s," he said. He didn't add what else Alex had told him: _Whatever it is, it probably belonged to the Nazis. You sure you want to go the Indiana Jones route, Neal? Because they got up to some freaky stuff. For all we know this leads to some secret bunker Hitler had and you're going to find a bunch of inbred feral dachshunds and a whole lot of bullshit otherwise._

"Something worth killing two people?" Peter asked. "Something worth all this?"

"It's worth it to Adler," Neal said, because what else could he say? He didn't know what Adler might want. He'd liked art, and pretty young men, and anagrams, and fractals.

"Then I guess we have to find it first," Peter said. Neal nodded. "You already have Mozzie working on this, huh?"

"I might have asked him to start looking into old designs," Neal said slowly. "I was gonna tell you. I was. I was just..." he spread his hands. "Look, I spent five months with Adler. He taught me how to wear a suit, he taught me about gourmet food, he paid me enough that I could eat it -- I learned how to be who I am from him. Including some of the con. You don't spend half a year becoming someone else's vision without learning things they didn't mean to teach you."

Peter sat back, a smile twitching around his lips. "You've been working with me for two years, and you still don't like beer."

"Or baseball. But I'm not trying to con you. I was trying to con him. You want to be conned, say the word, I will buy you Yankees tickets and pretend I enjoy your homicidal driving. But you don't want that," Neal added.

"No, I don't." Peter looked down at the fractal. "Wouldn't mind you doing what I tell you a little more often."

"I do what you tell me all the time," Neal said quietly, leaning close. "Tell me right now if you want."

Peter's eyes raised, catching his. "You're waiting for me, huh?"

Neal nodded.

"Why?"

"I don't know what's okay between us."

"So why not ask?"

Neal gave him a dry look. "Would you?"

"Point." Peter sighed and stood up, offering Neal a hand; when he tugged, Neal stood and let himself be pulled close. Peter rested his palm against his throat, loose, looser than he ever had, and swept across his jaw with his thumb. He kissed him, the sunlight warm on them through the glass.

"I am sorry," Peter said, holding their foreheads together, "that you lost her. I'm sorry that your role model had to be Vincent Adler. And I know you deserved four years, more than four, but I'm sorry I put you there. If I had to do it over again I would. But I would be sorry."

"I'm here now," Neal said. "I'm not sorry for what I did. I'd do it over again too."

Peter laughed a little. "No, you wouldn't be sorry," he said, and kissed him again. Neal fitted his fingers into Peter's open collar, popped the button there, kissed his way down Peter's jaw and nuzzled into his throat. Peter had a hand curled in Neal's shirt, and he tugged it up and off, taking the undershirt with it. Neal pushed him towards the bed.

"I'm a little..." Peter broke off as Neal stripped his shirt down his shoulders. "I'm not quite..."

Neal cupped him through his pants, felt Peter buck into it, only half-hard. Exhaustion, alcohol, maybe even the odd grief Neal could feel, pressing against his own ribcage. This time, though, Peter wasn't Adler and Neal wasn't there to win anything; he pushed Peter down onto the edge of the bed and knelt between his legs, easing his pants down, pressing his face to Peter's stomach. Hands curled in his hair, affectionate, and when he looked up there was not a single ounce of avarice in Peter's face. Peter might want to own him more than Adler ever did, but Peter wanted to own Neal Caffrey, not a trinket or a piece of eye candy who happened to also have a brain. Him.

He sucked Peter's cock into his mouth, heard him moan, _felt_ him get harder. When Peter's hips started to hitch, his fingers tightening in Neal's hair, he leaned back and pushed Peter all the way onto the bed, straddling him and then rolling so that he had Peter's weight on his chest, his legs around Peter's hips.

"You don't know," Peter said into his shoulder, rubbing easily against him, slow and languid. "You don't know what it does to me, to us, having you -- always coming so close to losing you. I couldn't back away now if I wanted to, if I tried to."

"You won't have to," Neal promised, hoping he wasn't lying. "You -- there, oh," he broke off, as Peter slid a hand between them, gripping them both in one broad palm. " _Peter_ \-- "

"Gotcha, I gotcha," Peter answered, his other hand cupping Neal's face. "It's okay, come on."

Neal moaned and thrust up into his hand, against his body, closing his eyes against the contradiction -- weight and lightness, pleasure and sadness and release. It was complicated, frightening, and even after Peter came it took a while for Neal to catch his breath.

"Thank you," he said, as Peter rolled away into the blankets, turning to stare up at the ceiling.

"You really want to thank me, find me a tissue," Peter said. Neal laughed and reached down the side of the bed, carelessly using his shirt to clean them up, tossing it away when he was done. He turned on his side and watched Peter, watched complex emotions play across his face, even with his eyes closed. He was perhaps the only person Neal had slept with -- certainly the first in a long time -- who showed his feelings so openly. The sad thing was Peter wasn't even that unguarded. He was just...honest. And Neal hadn't fallen for an honest man in -- ever. Even Adler hadn't been.

"Full immunity," Peter said after a while. Neal thought he'd fallen asleep.

"Hm?" Neal asked. 

"I need immunity for something," Peter told him.

"Sun's already up," Neal pointed out.

"Haven't got my badge on."

Neal laughed. "You haven't got anything on," he said, butting his head against Peter's bare shoulder. Peter caught him, held him by his hair -- not painfully, just firmly.

"I need to tell you something," he said. "And I need you not to hold it against me, or use it, or act on it."

"What?" Neal broke free of his grip, pulling away slowly, and pushed himself up onto an elbow.

"Our office in Sacramento picked up a couple of forgeries," Peter said, opening his eyes. "Sheets from an old book. Historic papers. Sound familiar?"

"Clive," Neal said. "Our baby forger."

"I think so."

"Sacramento's handling it?" Neal asked, and Peter nodded. "So?" he spread his hands. "It's not like I can hop a jet out to California and go looking for the kid."

"They have your initials on them," Peter told him. Neal froze. "Hughes brought it to me. I told him it wasn't your signature and it wasn't your style, and I'd have known if you were doing forgery work here. He's backing you, and so am I."

"You think I did it?" Neal asked carefully.

"No. I think Clive wants your attention," Peter said. "But Sacramento won't give me the case, and Hughes ordered me not to tell you. This is why I need to know you won't act on this. You aren't supposed to know. I get it," he said, sitting up, resting his arms on his knees and looking down at Neal over his shoulder. "I do. It's a pride thing. And if I were you I'd be pissed too."

"Yeah, I am," Neal said. "I tried to help him, now he tries to screw me? For what, so I'll notice him?"

"Working theory," Peter said. "Neal, you have to let me handle this one. You _have to._ "

Neal considered it -- the news, the implications, the tone of Peter's voice. He eased himself back down against the pillows, lifting a hand to run it over Peter's spine, thumb slipping between the bumps it made in his skin.

"This is a test," he said softly. "Because of -- the thing with Fowler."

"Yeah. I guess."

"You want me to let you handle this, to prove you will. So that I'll trust you," Neal continued. "I trust you, Peter."

"With your life, maybe," Peter said. "When it comes to letting other people help you, when it comes to believing that I'm working for you, not against you -- not so much."

"Can I ask..." Neal swallowed and then pushed on. "Last time we were here -- you said, about -- a collar. You said."

"I remember."

"If I back off of this, if I let you take care of Clive -- "

"I'm not going to bribe you for good behavior," Peter retorted. "That's not how this works."

"But if I proved I trusted you. You've let me earn things in the past," Neal pointed out. "The Caillebotte exhibit. That first vellum Clive did."

"That was for a case."

"But you brought it to me," Neal argued. He spread his hand out, flattening it against Peter's back, seeing how far his fingers spread. "Do you even understand what I'm asking?"

"Maybe I don't," Peter said. "Explain it to me."

Neal sat up, leaning against him, head pressed into the crook between neck and shoulder, even though it was awkward. "I won't fight you about Clive. You deal with it. When Hughes says you can bring me in, fine, bring me in. Until then it's yours. But." He nosed against Peter's pulse, closing his eyes. "I want to know that what I do has consequences for you. That I matter."

"Of course you matter. To both of us."

"Easy to say, but I live among liars," Neal pointed out. "I want proof. This is the way I am, Peter, this is my life. Prove it matters to you, that I matter to you."

"Make you a deal," Peter said, after a pause. "Trust me with Clive. That means no asking around, no loopholes, no side cons on this. You don't act on anything you know until I tell you. In a couple of months, we'll talk."

"Deal," Neal said promptly, and felt a little like he was signing something away, but it hardly mattered. "And you should go home and sleep in your own bed, because I am planning to sleep _all over_ this one," he added, sprawling back, shoving Peter over with his legs.

"Oh you are, are you?" Peter asked, unmoving, but he smiled.

"My bed, my rules."

"It's not even your bed."

"You think June would rent it out to you? 'By the way, I'm fucking Neal, I think I should timeshare -- ' " Neal broke off when Peter turned and wrestled him flat, pinning him.

"Okay," Peter said, and kissed him on the forehead before rolling off, casting around for his clothes. "Home I go."

"Peter," Neal said, rolling over to watch him dress. Peter looked up from buckling his belt. "Thank you. For the immunity."

"Easiest way to talk," Peter said.

"Talking isn't ever easy. I appreciate the help."

Peter gave him a nod, clearly uncertain how to respond, and turned away to pull on his shirt. Neal felt his eyes closing of their own accord; he tried to stay awake until Peter left, so he could say goodbye, but the last thing he remembered was the arch of Peter's spine, the bend of his body as he shrugged into his jacket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
>  **[Monet's Garden](http://giverny.org/gardens/fcm/visitgb.htm)** at Giverny.  
>  Paolo Uccello, **[Saint George Slaying the Dragon](http://www.ngv.vic.gov.au/colapp/api/images/Fd100442/image?size=large)**. Or, if you prefer, **[here's another one](http://www.nationalgallery.org.uk/paintings/paolo-uccello-saint-george-and-the-dragon)** he did. But in my head, Adler bought the first version. It's uglier, I kind of like it.


	17. Chapter 17

Neal Caffrey  
American, 1980 -  
 _The Forged Frame_  
Oil, 2011  
Gift of the Artist

The floral themes of Caffrey's _Carnation Girl_ are seen in full force with _The Forged Frame_ , designed to emulate Monet's use of color and depth of feeling more directly. The vivid blues and greens create an almost three-dimensional contrast, the river seeming to carry the bright, gently-rendered water plants towards the viewer. Less an exercise in nostalgia and more a pure artistic conceit, this work displays Caffrey's skill at imitation and hints at his ability to appropriate and adapt, a hallmark of later efforts. Caffrey's attitude towards his early work and the cultural position in which he found himself are clear in the "defaced" nature of the painting: the artist reflects the view society holds of him, which obscures the painting and casts it back on his audience.

Many of Caffrey's early sketches have been preserved, but paintings from the same era as _The Forged Frame_ are rare, most having been destroyed in a fire. Some fragments of these were incorporated into a later collage work, _Phoinikoi_.

***

Peter didn't see Neal's false Monet again until after the Burmese ruby job, until after Neal's startling revelation that his father had been a cop. A crooked cop, too; a lot of things began to make more sense, like Neal's sullen intractability during the boiler room job, when he had thought Peter was the one who had Kate. Especially calling out Peter's alias in front of a dozen armed men. Peter thought about it a lot, that afternoon. _You want to be a dirty cop? Why don't I out you in front of all these boys with guns. Oh look, I have one too._

Jesus, what a mess. And Peter wanted to get back to the office and jump into the law enforcement database, wanted to search for Officer Caffrey, wherever he'd been, but he knew better. Neal didn't want to talk about it, and Peter knew if he found records on his father, if he found an arrest file or a death certificate or a newspaper article, he wouldn't be able to stop himself from asking Neal about them. It was just the way he was, and their balance was fragile enough.

He knew he'd made the right choice the next time he was at Neal's apartment, just to pick him up in the morning. Neal was dressed and ready, but he was working on the he-said-it-wasn't-a-Monet.

"What are you doing?" Peter asked, brow furrowed. Neal swept glue onto the painting with a wide brush and pasted a piece of paper on top, carefully pressing the edges of the paper down.

"Working," Neal answered without looking up. The strip of paper read _WANTED: FORGERY. NEAL CAFFREY._

"Where the hell did you get your wanted posters?" Peter asked, distracted.

"My file," Neal replied. "Mozzie photocopied everything before we sent it back. You had a whole folder of my wanted posters, it's kind of sweet. Like a demented scrapbook."

"And now you're..." Peter prompted.

"It's art, don't question," Neal replied. He added another strip of paper: _FRAUD AND GRAND THEFT. NEAL CAFFREY._

"Neal, you're destroying it," Peter said.

"No, I'm _completing_ it," Neal corrected, stepping back, dropping the brush into a tray and wiping his hands with a damp rag. Most of the detail, the prettiest part of the painting, had been covered with wanted headlines. No description, no sketches or mug shots, just the huge-font warnings. FRAUD. FORGERY. GRAND THEFT. ART THEFT. FORGERY. FORGERY.

"Are you...is that...signing it, somehow?" Peter ventured, confused and a little worried.

"It's a statement," Neal said, sounding satisfied.

"Oh," Peter said. He didn't pretend to understand modern art, and didn't care to, but right now he'd give a lot for a curator of Neal Caffrey's brain. Neal looked up at him, sighed, and rubbed his eyes.

"It's about law and art," he said. "Look what I made, it's beautiful. But it's not legal. And even if it were, I'm not legal. This is what people see," he said, pointing at one of the FRAUD headlines. "It's not subtle, but it works," he added. "We ready to go?"

They had a lot of paperwork from the Burma case to wrap up -- reports to Amnesty International, carefully edited by Hughes himself, and Peter had to itemize the parts for the synthetic ruby machine, among other things -- but at least it was quiet work, calming after the international roller-coaster ride they'd had to deal with. There was a letter of thanks from the State Department too, which Peter copied and placed in Neal's parole file. Not their proudest moment, harassing the Burmese ambassador while Mozzie's smoke-bomb fermented, but the parole board wouldn't know that.

It was just pushing noon, and he was about to call Elizabeth to see if she was up for lunch, when he saw Diana cross the bullpen and stop at Neal's desk. They exchanged a few words, Neal looking slightly perplexed, and then Neal picked up his hat and followed her out to the elevators. He gave Peter a brief salute with the hat when he saw him watching, but that was all.

Neal and Diana had made some kind of peace with each other, before the whole thing with Fowler and the gun went down, but since then she'd been chilly towards him, professional and nothing more. Even before that, they'd never been the kind of people who ate lunch together. Peter tilted his head, wondering what was going on, but then put it out of his mind and picked up the phone to call El.

***

"If this is going to be another lecture, believe me, the spanking from last time still smarts," Neal said, as he and Diana settled into a table at a little outdoor cafe a few blocks from the Federal Building. She gave him a look, one that even he had trouble interpreting, and asked for water when the waiter stopped at their table. "Okay, now I'm worried," he added.

"I needed to talk to you away from the office," she said, ignoring the menu in front of her. Neal waited patiently. "About Peter."

"Is something wrong?" Neal asked.

"That's what I need to know. From the outside, it looks like he's losing control over you," she said. "Looks like he's choosing you over the Bureau. But it's not that simple, is it?"

"Is it ever?" Neal didn't like where this was going.

"Used to be. Something changed. I'm capable of doing the math, Neal," Diana said. Neal went wary and alert, and probably didn't hide it as well as he should have. "I know about you and him."

"What exactly do you think you know?" Neal asked.

"I know you're sleeping with him," she said bluntly.

"And how do you -- "

"Come on. I'm not blind," she replied. Neal blinked. "Here's a little story: a few months after we caught you, I came out to him. Not like it was a big secret, but I wanted to bring my girlfriend to an office party, wanted to know if it was okay. He said he got it, because he'd been there, and he'd have my back." She shrugged. "I know he's bi. I know he's put himself on the line for you. I've seen the way he handles you. Wasn't hard to figure out."

Neal ducked his head. "The hospital, huh?"

"I have never seen him put a choke like that on anyone," she replied. "Never seen you respond that way, either. But I suspected before then."

"When?"

"When we took Deckard down. You freaked out. He put his hands on you. Then he went after Deckard for selling out Clive." She leaned back. "It was going on by then."

Neal nodded.

"Since when?"

"Since before you came back," Neal said. "When it started, anyway."

"That long?"

"Yeah. But that's not really what you want to ask me, is it?"

"No." She bit her lip. "I need to know if he's coercing you."

" _Coercing_ me?" Neal asked, honestly surprised. "You know Peter. He seem like that kind of guy to you?"

"No. But nobody does, until they do," she replied. "He put a choke on you."

"That's..." Neal closed his eyes briefly. "Not what it looked like. You think Peter's violent with me?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm talking to you, not to him. If he is, you have legal recourse. You wouldn't go back to prison. If he's threatened you, or abused you, I can help."

Neal felt oddly touched. Diana was still pissed at him, still didn't trust him, but she'd make sure he was safe before anything else.

"He's not coercing me," he said, as their drinks arrived. Diana ordered, brisk and efficient; Neal followed, picking the first thing on the menu that sounded edible. As soon as the waiter was gone, he leaned forward. "He wouldn't hurt me. If anything -- he said he couldn't give me what I wanted. He said I couldn't give free consent in custody."

"And now he's doing it anyway."

Neal grinned. "I pushed. I'm hard to resist."

"And the choke?"

"It's -- shorthand. Something we do." Neal looked down. "It helps. Helps me. I know how it looks, but it's not abuse, I swear."

Diana frowned, seeming to consider it, but eventually she nodded. "In that case, here's what else I need to know: does Elizabeth know?"

"She's involved in it," Neal said reluctantly.

Diana raised an eyebrow. "Oh, it's like that?"

"Look, you could get Peter in a lot of trouble," Neal lowered his voice. "He doesn't deserve that. They don't. You want me to walk away, I will, but he's not the one who should get hurt here."

"Are you conning them?" Diana asked. Neal considered being offended, but it was a fair question.

"It's not a con," he said. "I swear, Diana, it's not a con. I care about them. I _need_ them," he added, with honesty born of desperation.

She swept his face, looking for deceit. It was one of the sharpest looks he'd ever had from anyone, Peter included, and he felt suddenly transparent.

"And you'd walk away from that, for him?" she asked.

"Is that what you want?" Neal replied.

"I'm not his mother. Or yours. Peter wants to run that risk, it's up to him," she said. "I won't cover for either of you, but I won't go to Hughes."

"Thank you," he said.

"You try to con me, though, I'll break your arms," she added. "You hurt either of them, prison will look like a vacation villa. We understand each other?"

Neal nodded. "You planning to talk to him about it?"

"That's gonna be an awkward conversation," she sighed. He smiled a little.

"Life's more complicated than the law," he said. "People are messy."

"You're telling me," she answered, leaning back as their food arrived. "I've got a girlfriend who hates New York, a felon for a colleague, and Jones keeps coming to me for advice on women."

"He's coming to you?" Neal asked, mocking hurt. "But I'm right here!"

"I have a better track record," she replied.

" _Ouch,_ " he said. "Deserved, maybe." He paused. "Are we good?"

"No. But we're getting there," she added.

"Because I could -- "

"Eat your lunch, Caffrey."

"Yes'm."

 

***

Neal decided, discretion being the better part of avoiding a mess, not to go back to the office for Diana's talk with Peter. Instead he called Moz, who agreed to meet him on the steps of Grant's Tomb (never let it be said Mozzie lacked drama) to talk about the antenna. Mozzie was, well, Mozzie, but Neal knew he was working hard, even if he didn't want to call it work. By the time they were done going over the schematics, he had a text from Peter: _Thanks for defending me to Diana._

He texted back hastily. _Things ok?_

_Strange, but yes. Taking the day?_

_Status report from Moz. See you tomorrow,_ he answered, and tucked the phone in his pocket, heading for home and hopefully some time to clear his head.

No such luck.

By unspoken agreement, Neal and Mozzie had declared June their protectorate; she offered them shelter and comfort, and the least they could do in return was make sure she was vigilantly guarded against the unscrupulous. He suspected she thought this was more adorable than it was necessary, given her past and her ability to smell a crook a mile off, but it was the thought that counted. So when Neal found a strange man in June's house, his hackles went up and stayed up even after Ford had been introduced. It wasn't just self-preservation -- it might have been, once -- but a genuine instinct to scare off anyone trying to hurt June. And he did, after all, have the FBI at his disposal now.

Oh, but it was a brilliant con, the job Ford ran on him, and Peter, and the FBI, and Ganz. By the end of it, Neal couldn't help but admire Ford's technique, even as he watched Ford walk away with a gun in one hand and a suitcase full of worthless paper in the other. The coin had been a masterstroke, and Ford had clearly had his number, manipulating him into finding the plate, jumping into the counterfeiting scheme, dragging the FBI in.

He felt pretty proud of himself, really. He hadn't just run a con back on Ford, a spur-of-the-moment swap; he'd stopped and given him a choice. If Ford had done the smart thing and stayed, Neal would have been able to wrangle him a deal, he was sure of it. If Ford left, he wouldn't know how screwed he was until he was too far away to use that shiny little gun. Peter's ethos must be rubbing off on him a little.

"There's one thing Byron figured out that Ford never did," Peter said, sitting in the Lenox Lounge, while evidence techs started packing up the counterfeiting equipment. "There's no such thing as a final score. Only the next one."

Neal wanted to shut him up, to tell him to spare the details, but he didn't. Maybe he needed to hear it. It was always a temptation: the con, the big score, the last brilliant theft. Even working for the FBI, it was more fun when there was a little crime involved, and Neal knew that was probably pretty messed up. On the other hand, well-adjusted sanity seemed boring.

"Unless you figure that out, you're gonna lose in the end," Peter finished. Neal sat quietly, turning the words over in his head. "Ready?"

"Yeah," Neal agreed, and followed him out, leaving Ford's hat behind. Outside the sun was still bright, almost painful, like coming out of a movie theater. He shaded his eyes as they walked to the car.

"Coming home?" Peter asked, as he started the car.

"I think I need to look in on June," Neal said. "That okay?"

Peter nodded. "Not a bad idea. You think she'll be upset?"

"I think June's a survivor," Neal answered. "She's been through harder. I think he really does regret using her."

"Didn't stop him, though," Peter answered, pulling into traffic.

"Yeah." Neal studied the buildings passing by, the streets, the turns. He inhaled. "That memory trick."

He heard Peter chuckle, low. "Burke the Jerk?"

"That wasn't yours. I was just messing with you for that crack you made about not growing up."

"Well, thanks for the honesty, I guess," Peter said. "So? What was it?"

"You never had one," Neal admitted. Peter shot him a glance. "You were my first Fed. You were barely a step behind me -- then, anyway," he added, and Peter grumbled something under his breath. "You didn't need one. I wasn't going to forget you."

"I'm touched," Peter said sarcastically.

"Kate called you the Pet," Neal added. Peter narrowed his eyes. "Always following us around, you know. Peter, Pet..."

"I take from your tone," Peter said, "that it wasn't an affectionate nickname."

"Coulda been worse," Neal answered. "There was this cop in Vienna, Alex called him the Little Dick."

Peter's lips curved upwards just a little. "First-hand knowledge?"

"I never asked. Seems like a long time ago, now," Neal said thoughtfully. "I feel old."

"You're twenty-nine," Peter answered.

"Almost thirty!"

"Oh, well, that changes everything."

Neal leaned back a little, staring out the window, absently tracking their route. "I don't want to be sixty years old and have nothing. I don't want to show up in someone's life one day and screw them because the con's more important. But there's nothing else like it."

"We've been down this road, Neal."

"I know," Neal said. "More than once."

"And?"

"And I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yes you are," Peter agreed, pulling to a stop in front of June's. A cab honked behind them, and Peter flipped his hand at the driver as he turned in his seat. "You don't have to be like Ford."

"Guess we'll find out," Neal said. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bright and early," Peter answered.

Neal heard the car pull away as he climbed the steps to June's. Music drifted out from the sitting room; June was a solitary silhouette at the piano.

He didn't need to tell her what happened. She was smart; she'd figured it out, from what she knew of Ford, and from what Mozzie had undoubtedly told her. So he just let her talk. And he offered her a dance.

"You have us," he said softly, as they danced. "Me and Mozzie, Peter, Elizabeth."

She laughed a little, into his shoulder. "It's never been about who I had or didn't have. I have my children, my grandchildren. I have friends. It's only...some days I just miss him so much, anything seems like a good idea if it brings him back for a little while."

"I'm sorry."

"I know you are," she said. "Byron would have loved you," she added, as the music ended and she stepped back. June was, if nothing else, strong to her core in a way Neal envied; her eyes were dry, face composed, and there was a hint of a smile on her lips. "Thank you, Neal."

"Anytime," he answered, giving a little half-bow. June laughed. "June -- he hurt you. If you want me and Mozzie to -- "

"No, dear. No," she said firmly. "Let him go. He has enough troubles without setting the two of you on him."

Neal nodded. "You just say the word."

"Sweet boy." She patted his cheek. "Mozzie's upstairs. I think you'd better go reassure him before he has some kind of fit."

"On my way." Neal grinned, kissed her hand, and ran up the stairs to meet Mozzie.

***

And then Matthew Keller walked back into their lives.

Peter, at least, had forewarning from Hughes. He watched Neal carefully as Hughes took them through Keller's opening move: information in exchange for protection. Neal was the consummate con man, not a hint of alarm or turmoil in his face. Just the allowable indignation of a man who knows someone's trying to pull a fast one. In fact, Neal reacted like nothing so much as a cop. Even when it became clear they were going to have to talk to Keller, and maybe even offer a deal, Neal kept his poker face. Considering the last time Keller had messed with them it had ended with Neal getting drunk, alone in his loft, Peter wasn't going to stop watching just because this time Neal kept his temper.

"Are you okay with this?" Peter asked in the car, on the way to the prison. Neal glanced at him.

"Are you?" he asked, which wasn't an answer.

"Neal."

"There are so many reasons, Peter, that I am not okay with this," Neal said. "Our past relationship is like, number eleven or fifteen. One, I am really uncomfortable walking into a prison, any prison. Two, this is exactly what Keller wants. Three, are they going to try and cavity-search me again? Four, you haven't stopped wanting to punch Keller in the face. Five, I definitely want to punch Keller in the face and I'm not as good at it as you are. Six -- "

"I get it. And what do you mean, am I?" Peter said, because something had just clicked over in his brain. "Why wouldn't I be okay with it? I'm not the guy who slept with him and then got him arrested for murder."

"Okay, those two things were ten years apart," Neal said. "And I don't know if you've put these facts together, Columbo, but you're about to interview your boyfriend's ex-boyfriend."

Peter felt he did a very good job not slamming on the brakes.

"Yeah," Neal said. "That was reason number eight."

"Fuck," Peter said feelingly. "You had to bring that up?"

"Better now than in the middle of the interview," Neal pointed out. "Just go in and do your supercop thing. Keller doesn't even know you know about us. Look at it that way. We have one up on him."

"I do love having one up on the bad guy," Peter admitted.

"Yeah, I noticed," Neal told him.

Keller had it nice at Hawthorne; his cell looked like the photos of Capone's cell Peter had seen in books. Comfortable chair, fancy lamp, cigars, scotch -- and a chess board, laid out for a game. He could see, now -- now that he knew Neal and Keller's history in full -- what Neal had been attracted to. Keller was an alpha dog, a smug son of a bitch constantly working to show his dominance. He was trying to make a deal with the FBI and he still treated Peter like an appendage of Neal, a necessary evil; Neal was the one he told about the passport forger, Lang, and Neal was the one he talked to when he said he wanted a deal.

Peter wasn't interested in a pissing match with a murderer, and certainly had nothing to prove to Matthew Keller, but he could see Keller was trying for it. And perhaps on Neal it was working.

It admittedly had Peter off his game. And if he hadn't been off his game he would have remembered to pick up the dry-cleaning that night, or at least he wouldn't have been totally insane the next morning when it hit him that he hadn't. Even as the words were coming out of his mouth he could tell he was picking a fight with Elizabeth for no good reason. Maybe because he had to fight with someone if he couldn't punch Keller's teeth down his throat, and who better than the woman he loved?

 _Anyone better_. He knew it, and he still couldn't just say he was sorry and admit he was being an asshole.

He genuinely did want to be better for her than he had been lately. Between Neal's crazies, their workload at the Bureau, and their sidelong pursuit of Adler, he'd been distracted and absent and he worried he was hurting her. Neglecting her. Somehow, all that worry just turned into anger.

"So the two of you are fighting," Neal said, when Peter explained it to him. "As much as you can call it a _fight_ , anyway."

"Did you not hear the part where I deliberately didn't call her hon?" Peter asked.

"Yes, yes, I heard that part," Neal said, only a little sarcastically.

"Oh, what, are we really going to get into who's had the worst fight?" Peter demanded. Neal held up his hands innocently.

"You're not fighting with _me_ ," he said.

"Jesus, I am! What the hell is wrong with me?" Peter asked, as they stopped in front of Lang's studio.

"You're sleeping with another man and dry-cleaning is what you fight about? This is no big deal, it'll blow over," Neal said.

"Well, we're both..." Peter gestured. He saw Neal quickly suppress a grin. "And I never forget to pick you up."

"Thank you for conflating me with your dry-cleaning."

"Neal!"

"Look, call her, leave her a voicemail, say hon before you hang up," Neal said. "I miss anything?"

It was a good idea, and also a stupidly obvious one, which just proved his point that this whole Keller thing was seriously making him into some kind of head case.

"No," Peter admitted. "I'll call her as soon as we're done here."

Famous last words.

***

When Jason Lang took Peter, Neal made three decisions in quick succession. One, he wasn't going to tell the FBI until he'd talked to Keller, because he'd only get one shot at talking to Keller and that would disappear once the Bureau got ahold of this. Two, he was going to kill Keller with his bare hands. Three, he was going to save Peter and lock him up somewhere safe and never let him out.

Admittedly, only the first decision was in any way realistic. But the second and third decisions kept him moving, kept him from being paralyzed by the fact that someone had Peter, someone with a gun, someone who could hurt him.

Slamming Keller into a wall felt really good, too, but that couldn't last. Outside, in the exercise yard, Neal got a grip on his rage and listened quietly while Keller talked.

"I don't have two and a half million dollars," Neal told him, which was true. He'd liquidated pretty much everything he could, and he was looking down the barrel of poverty himself.

"Neal, how long have we known each other?" Keller asked, which was dirty pool.

"Everything is gone, Keller," Neal insisted. "I've had to use my resources since my current activities are a little limited."

"That's true, you do have expensive tastes," Keller agreed, sweeping him from head to toe with what amounted to an unsettling leer. "But I recall a night in Scotland when you acquired something worth that amount."

"Six years ago," Neal pointed out, but that was...clarification. Because there had been a couple of nights in Scotland, back when he was seventeen and Matty Keller was twenty-two and godlike in Neal's eyes. They'd gone after some paintings, nothing big. And the next time he'd been in Scotland was just before he found Kate again. He'd been after the ring.

"I'm fairly certain you held on to it," Keller drawled.

"I didn't," Neal said. "Didn't have any use for it."

Because Kate was dead. And Keller was a killer. Not Matty, who'd taught him how to cheat at backgammon and palm playing cards. Just Keller. Murderer.

"Well, I do. So find it," Keller said. "You've got three hours until my transfer."

"We don't have to do this," Neal said. "Come on, Matty."

Keller stiffened at the name.

"Let Peter go, we can make this go away. You're not implicated. Call Lang and have him drop Peter off somewhere, nobody has to get hurt."

"Is that a threat?" Keller asked.

"Matty," Neal said, low and desperate. "Please."

Keller stepped forward, still with a swagger in his posture, with his head bent in that way that always made Neal feel smaller than him, even though he wasn't.

"You ever miss me?" Keller asked.

"What?"

"You miss me? You think about us?" Keller repeated. "We had some good times."

Neal lowered his own head, looked at Keller through his eyelashes -- well, it was worth a shot. "Sometimes."

"You remember how good we were together?" Keller asked.

"I remember we never needed to kill anyone to get a job done," Neal replied.

"No. No we didn't." Keller rested a hand on his shoulder. Neal fought down rising revulsion. "Not until Spain. And then you fucking ran."

"I was eighteen, Matty. I screwed up. Don't kill an innocent man because of something I did _eleven years ago_ ," Neal said.

"This isn't about us," Keller said, stepping back. "That's just a bonus. You got three hours."

And he walked away.

"You're gonna lose, Keller," Neal called after him, unable to just leave it at that. "Again."

" _Pis aller_ ," Keller answered. "My move of last resort, Neal."

***

They showed up in the middle of the day, the men in the suits with the sober expressions.

Yvonne escorted them into her little office at the back of the Burke Premiere Events storefront. Elizabeth occasionally had nightmares that started like this: two men in suits, men she recognized vaguely from visits to Peter's office, their faces grave, the words buzzing strangely in her head when they spoke.

_Agent Burke's been kidnapped. Ma'am, we need you to come with us._

Later, when she looked back on it, she didn't remember whole swathes of time, just little moments. Didn't remember numbly gathering up her purse (left her cellphone on her desk, left her house keys in her coat, left her coat behind, sitting on a chair) or the ride to the FBI, or the well-meant reassurances she was sure the agents must have given her.

She remembered Neal, standing out sharp-edged against the blur of faces and walls and desks, the first familiar thing she'd seen since the men had come to her office.

"What is going on?" she asked, as Neal guided her into Peter's office.

"Keller," he said. "He took Peter."

"Wait -- _that_ Keller?" she demanded.

"Yeah." Neal was on the other side of the room already -- people seemed to move without moving, she had to calm down. But it was like Neal was hiding. "I'm sorry, Elizabeth -- "

"What does he want?"

Neal looked away. "He has debts. He wants to be paid."

Her heart dropped further. "The FBI doesn't negotiate."

Neal looked at her, agonized. "I know."

She was about to ask how much, because they weren't rich but they had some savings, a retirement fund, she could call her sister and borrow money if she had to, but Reese came in before she could get the words out. Like Neal he was something familiar, but it was all platitudes, more of the same bland reassurances that meant nothing.

"What are you doing?" she asked, when Neal made it clear the FBI was doing all it could, and all of it was pointless. Neal was still hiding behind Peter's desk, arms crossed, body tense and taut.

"They want me to go home," he said, an edge to his voice. "Sit tight."

It was what they would make her do, she knew that. A part of her thought it was hysterically funny, that Neal was being treated just like she would be, like the useless wife who couldn't help.

"But is that what you're going to do?" she asked carefully.

And it felt like months of patience, months of cautiously luring Neal out from behind his facade, over a year of gently, deftly helping Peter work Neal through all of it -- that all paid off when Neal looked at her and asked, quietly, "What do you want me to do?"

"Whatever it takes to bring him home," she said, just as quietly.

Neal nodded and reached out, pulled her forward enough to wrap her in a hug. Nothing extraordinary, nothing unusual in the fact that he'd offer her comfort.

"Go home with the Feds and stay safe," he said in her ear. "I'll get him back. Mozzie and I are working on it."

She nodded against his shoulder. "Can I help?"

"As long as I know I don't have to worry about you, we can keep our eyes on the goal," he said. "Let me do this, I'm good at it."

"Okay." She stepped back, ignoring the urge to hide in Neal's warmth and not let him go anywhere. "I trust you."

"Good." He looked up over her shoulder. "Your babysitters are coming. I am sorry for the afternoon you're about to have."

There were more agents, maybe even the same ones as before, she wasn't sure, and they took her back to Burke Premiere Events to get her coat and then home and they set up some kind of...some kind of _field office_ in her dining room, and nothing was really very clear again until Mozzie showed up.

***

It didn't come back all at once, the memory of the last time he and Keller had worked together. He remembered pieces of it, here and there, like trying to recall the lyrics of a song when you know the tune. Neal was eighteen and cocky as all hell and he ran with Matty Keller, who gave the impression he could do anything and frequently managed to prove it. They'd been working together for a little over a year, sleeping together for a little under, and Matty came up with this three-man job that required them to take the train into Spain from France, pull the heist, and then high-tail it out before it was discovered.

It was amazing, memory. He'd forgotten whether he'd even been the one to leave. Then, when he remembered that part, he still didn't remember why. Not until Keller had mentioned Spain.

They were going to steal some gems from a jeweler in Barcelona, he and Matty and this English guy they'd picked up named Ben. Then they would take the late train into France and head back to Marseilles, to the suite Neal had scammed for them, and while Ben was fencing the gems he and Matty would stay in the hotel suite and Matty would praise him, like he always did after a job, tell him what a smart little asshole he was while they fucked.

Matty was carrying a gun, but Neal wasn't afraid of guns back then; liked them, even. He respected them, knew the dangers, but he was young and he'd never seen anyone get shot and anyway Matty was carrying, not him.

Except they were standing in an alley outside the train station when Ben said _Fuck, my passport_ and Matty said _What?_ and two minutes later Ben was dead, and Matty was hustling Neal wide-eyed and terrified onto the train.

"Keep cool," Matty told him. "Just keep cool."

"He had his passport," Neal said. "You didn't even -- "

"Shut the fuck up," Matty told him, ripping Ben's passport to pieces in front of him. "I'm gonna take care of this, I'll take care of us. Okay? Stay here, I gotta flush this."

He hadn't known what else to do. So he'd gone with Matty back to Marseilles, and Matty had said he'd fence the gems himself, and while he was out of the room Neal had thrown what belongings he could find into a satchel and he'd run. He had plenty of connections in France; he made his way quietly to Paris and then to the coast, caught a cruise ship to the Keys, and somehow wrote the whole thing out of his memory.

He hadn't forgotten the gun, though. Never went near them again if he could help it, wouldn't work with anyone who carried.

God, how could he have forgotten Ben? Ben used to call Keller "Charismatty", and he hated European beer, and the first time Matty put his arm around Neal's shoulders in public it was in front of Ben, who didn't even seem like he cared.

And if Keller killed Peter -- it didn't bear thinking about. Giving up Kate's ring, the ring he'd found for her because he'd sworn he'd make her a queen and this was the closest thing...that was nothing next to that threat. Mozzie had more qualms about it than Neal did.

He was going to get Peter out of this, and when he did he was going to make Keller pay for Peter and for the frightened look in Elizabeth's eyes and for Ben, too. He'd make sure of it.

***

It wasn't the first time Peter had been in fear for his life. When he was thirteen he'd taken his first really bad fall from a horse and in the few seconds he was airborne he thought for sure he was going to die when he hit the ground. He didn't die; didn't even break anything, barely had the wind knocked out of him, but he remembered the fear and knew it again when he was older. He'd been on the business end of guns and knives and god knew what else, as a junior agent. He'd been shot at and poisoned and thirty feet from an exploding airplane.

Lang was a fool, easily manipulated, and like so many petty crooks he treated a gun like a status symbol, waving it around and not bothering to handle it correctly. Peter wasn't afraid of Jason Lang.

At least, he kept telling himself that. It was mostly true.

He was pretty sure Neal had received his message and could decode it, though he also knew it meant Neal had paid his ransom, and Hughes was probably going to have Neal's ass for that. Still, if it kept Keller from getting loose, that was something. And, by the time Lang returned with the ring (a ring? Seriously?) Peter was almost out of the cuffs. It didn't take much to taunt and manipulate Lang into reaching into the cell --

Granted, he should have grabbed and secured Lang's gun when he pulled him headfirst into the bars. Still, for an impromptu jailbreak he thought it was pretty good.

Very little had ever sounded as good as the ringtone on the other end of the line when Peter dialed Jones's desk at the FBI.

Neal was with them when the cavalry arrived. Peter, triumphant, found himself looking past Jones eagerly, to where Diana and Neal were just coming into the little room. Neal, without hesitation, grabbed Peter and pulled him into a hug -- not the usual submission, nothing even overtly affectionate, just an embrace of greeting. Either he was a better liar than even Peter expected, or he was just sharing in a triumph. Whichever way it was, it felt good, and Peter had to stifle the urge to hold on. He saw Diana watching them, but when she spoke there wasn't a hint of censure in her voice. Just business, which was a relief.

"You need to get Neal's report, when you can," she said to him in a low voice, as they climbed the stairs towards sunlight and real freedom. Peter felt the weight of the ring in his pocket.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Guess you're right to trust him, that's all," she said quietly, and left him to go make sure Lang was secured and read his rights.

Then Elizabeth was there, and for at least a few minutes she became Peter's whole world. She'd beaten the ambulance, which he'd ask about later, but right now all he wanted was to make sure she was real and he himself was still alive.

Eventually, though, an EMT tugged on his arm gently, and he held onto Elizabeth with his other hand while they led him to an ambulance.

"They didn't hurt me," he said, knowing they were going to check him over anyway. "No drugs, no injuries."

"Glad to hear it," one of the EMTs said, fitting a blood pressure cuff around his arm. "Means our job'll be quick."

"Honey, just let them do it," Elizabeth said, still holding his hand. He could see Neal in the distance, on his phone -- probably calling Mozzie. Neal hung up and came over to see them, but Hughes stepped in first and Neal stopped about ten feet away, wary.

"Elizabeth, I need to talk to Peter alone for a second," he said gently.

"Reese -- "

"It's okay," Peter said, squeezing her hand. "Won't take long. Go find out what Neal's doing. Try and keep him from picking any cop pockets."

She gave him a weak smile, but she let go of his hand and walked over to Neal.

"Can you give a statement?" Hughes asked.

"Sure. Can I give it somewhere that's not the back of an ambulance?" Peter said.

"We'll take you back to the Bureau. We need to get a statement from Caffrey, too. Try to get you through the paperwork as fast as possible."

"I'm okay," Peter said. "I can do a statement. Lang's in holding?"

"Yep. Between the fraud, kidnapping, extortion -- "

"Attempted murder," Peter said. Hughes raised his eyebrows. "Pointed a gun at me."

"We should be able to lock him up until he needs a walker to leave his cell in the mornings," Hughes said. Peter frowned. "What?"

"Can I talk to him?"

"Right now?"

"At the Bureau. I need to talk to him."

"Peter..." Hughes sighed. "You can't take this case."

"Yeah, I know," Peter said. "I just need to make sure he understands where we stand, him and me. You can put anyone in the room you like as a witness. I won't get violent."

"We can do that," Hughes nodded. "Who do you want on the case?"

Peter looked around, thinking. "Can you have Jones take his statement? Then we'll kick it over to Violent Crimes."

"You sure about that?"

"Like you said. I can't take the case. Jones is familiar with it, and Diana's got a full jacket right now."

"Plus she's not anyone's favorite at the moment," Hughes added. Peter gave him a questioning look. "I told her to take Caffrey home, not help him negotiate with kidnappers."

"Saved my life, sir," Peter reminded him.

"Which is the only reason I'm not going to give her an insubordination hearing," Hughes replied. "We done here?" he asked the EMTs, who nodded. "Good. Come on, let's get back to the Bureau, we'll get you processed and home in time for dinner."

***

The other agents left Peter alone in his office to write his statement; he could see Neal at his desk, writing his own. The case had to be clean, down to the last letter, so Hughes made Elizabeth wait outside until he was done. He sketched out the bare bones of the experience -- almost more of an outline than an account -- filled in a few details, signed and dated it in front of Hughes, and stopped briefly to kiss his wife on his way to scare the shit out of Lang.

"I got one thing to take care of," he said, including Neal in the pleading look he gave Elizabeth. "Ten minutes. Then we can go home."

"What do they want from you now?" Elizabeth asked, looking angry.

"Nothing, it's just a loose end I need to tie up. Promise, I'll be right back," he said, as Jones approached. "Promise," he repeated, following Jones down the stairs. They rode the elevator in silence, while Jones shuffled Lang's intake papers and made a few signatures here and there. When they reached Holding and Interrogation, Jones let him lead the way down the hall.

"I need to have a word with Lang, and after I do, he's going to give you two statements," Peter said as they walked. "Take the first statement and deliver it to Violent Crimes. Make sure Ruiz doesn't get it. I can't have someone with his record on something this delicate."

"I don't know if I have that kind of pull with those guys," Jones replied.

"Maybe not, but I do. Show it to the Special Agent in Charge over there, Epton. Make sure she sees it was a Fed who was kidnapped. She owes me one from the Fiametta case. Ask her politely not to give it to Ruiz."

Jones nodded. "And the second statement?"

Peter stopped and stepped to the side, up against the wall. Jones joined him, head bowed forward.

"Fold it up and put it in your pocket," Peter said softly. "Take the first statement to Violent Crimes. Once you're done there, take the second one up to my office." He pressed a key into Jones's hand. "Lock it in the top drawer. Understand?"

"Am I committing a crime here?" Jones asked. Peter shook his head. "Okay. Got it."

"Good man. Come on."

Peter stopped at the vending machines in the lobby and ran a dollar bill into the payment slot; he pushed the button for a soda and dropped it into his pocket when it emerged. Jones watched, looking perplexed.

"Burke and Jones to see Lang," Peter said to the attendant as they passed. She nodded and unlocked the door. Peter entered first.

Lang was cuffed to a chair, head tipped back, eyes closed. When the door opened he started, but he didn't change position.

"Hiya, Lang," Peter said, settling in the chair across from him. Jones came to stand behind him. "Feeling safe? On top of the world?"

Lang's head tipped down, eyes opening.

"Gloating, that's nice, cinematic," he murmured.

"Not really."

"I want a deal."

"I seem to recall something you said earlier..." Peter tapped his fingers on the table, drawing the silence out. "What was it -- right. _No more deals._ "

Lang was silent.

"Fortunately, I'm not the one handling your case," Peter said. "Jones here is. For now. So here's what you're going to do if you ever, ever want to see daylight again after the attempted murder of a federal agent."

"I didn't, come on -- "

"I'm talking," Peter said. Lang closed his mouth. "You're going to write a confession. Everything Keller asked or told you to do. Everything you did. Every time you talked. Every sly look, every implication, you're going to put it all down on paper," he said, setting a pen between them on the table. Jones took a pad out of his pocket and put it down next to the pen. "Then," Peter continued, leaning back, "You're going to make a list of every FBI agent who harassed you, when it happened and what they did, what they said. If they searched your home, your office, your person. I want names."

Lang studied him. "Why?"

" _Because I told you to,_ " Peter growled. Lang actually jerked backwards. "Do we have an understanding?"

Lang nodded, eyes wide.

"Good." Peter pushed his chair back and stood, taking the soda can out of his pocket. "You'll be here a while. You should stay hydrated," he added, and left. He put his head into the observation room only long enough to make sure Lang was writing, Jones looming over him, and then walked out to the elevators.

Neal and Elizabeth were waiting for him in his office. Elizabeth hugged him again, and didn't seem to want to let go.

"Let's go home," he said, gently untangling himself. "Neal, you want a ride?"

"Got one waiting," Neal said. "Mozzie's downstairs with your car."

Mozzie was flagrantly parked in a no-parking zone, leaning on the car. When he saw them, he gave them a solemn nod and held up the keys. "Door to door service," he said.

"Do you even have a license?" Peter asked, as Mozzie held the back door for Elizabeth.

"Mainly for heavy trucking," Mozzie answered. "I think I can handle a sedan."

Neal was already climbing into the passenger's seat, so Peter joined Elizabeth in the back. She belted herself in with the middle belt and curled up against him, and he was glad enough of the contact.

Mozzie turned out to be a pretty safe driver, if a vocal one, shouting abuse at everyone around him and at the voice in the GPS when it told him he was going the wrong way ("IT'S A SHORTCUT!"). He bypassed June's without asking and took all three of them back to Brooklyn, tossing Neal the keys and disappearing down the street, off on whatever mysterious errands Mozzie ran when he wasn't doing Neal enormous favors.

"You okay?" Neal asked Peter, as Elizabeth unlocked the front door. 

"I will be," Peter answered.

"You need anything?"

"Matthew Keller's head on a platter," Peter replied. "I'll settle for a beer and a hot meal right now."

"He'll have set up resources ahead of time. Fake ID with a new alias, a stash of money. I think he's getting out of New York," Neal said, following them in. "I got Mozzie putting some guys on it, but Keller's slippery."

"Tell me about it," Peter said, crouching to greet Satchmo. "Hey, buddy," he mumbled, and kissed Satchmo's head, inhaling -- warm fur, grass from outside, the smell of their home. He straightened and pulled Elizabeth into his arms again. Neal, hovering in the background, watched warily; Peter gestured with one hand for Neal to come forward, and Elizabeth let go of him so Neal could step in, resting his face in the hollow of Peter's throat.

"Food," Peter said, after a while. "Then nervous breakdowns."

Neal laughed a little and stepped back. Elizabeth put an arm around Neal's waist, startling him.

"I'll heat something up," she said, but she didn't move until Peter moved to follow her into the kitchen.

He sat at the little kitchen table while Elizabeth took food out of the fridge, a leftover casserole from the night before. Neal uncapped a couple of beers while she put it in the oven to heat, then took a head of lettuce out of her hands and gently pushed her towards the table.

"Neal, you've done enough today -- " she protested, but Neal just kept gently maneuvering her until she sat down.

"Let me do this," he said, taking out a cutting board. She looked up at him, heartbreakingly grateful, and nodded.

While Neal worked, Peter reached into his pocket and took out the ring they'd recovered from Lang, setting it on the table with a click.

"What is that?" Elizabeth asked.

"My ransom," Peter replied, and Neal looked up sharply.

"Shouldn't that be in evidence?" he asked.

"I seem to recall someone telling me it should be in the Scotland Royal Museum," Peter replied. He rested a finger on the ring. "Tell me this story."

Neal bent back to his work. "It belonged to Mary, Queen of Scots. It was commissioned by her. It's a flawless emerald, ten karats, circled with diamonds. When Elizabeth took the throne, she took the ring. You can see it in portraits -- it's in one of Mary's, a couple of Elizabeth's. It's not an official symbol of sovereignty, but it was meant to represent the power of the Queen, specifically, whether she ruled or not."

"This is the Queen's Ornament?" Peter asked.

"Points for your knowledge of history," Neal said, still not looking up. "After Elizabeth died and James succeeded her, it was presented to Anne of Denmark, his wife, and then to Henrietta Maria of France, the wife of Charles the First. It went missing," he continued, chopping tomatoes deftly, "during the civil war. Some said Cromwell destroyed it. Others said it was secured in the house of a noble of Scotland before the end of the war. Lot of treasure hunters have gone looking for it."

"Where do you come in?" Peter asked. Neal gave him a quick smile.

"About three hundred and fifty years later," he said. "When I found out about it and did a little research."

"How'd you find it?" Elizabeth asked.

"Smarter and sneakier than those who went before, I guess," Neal shrugged. "I dug it out of a castle wall on an island in the Firth of Forth." He paused, laying the knife down. "It was for Kate."

Peter tilted his head slightly. Neal held onto the counter with both hands.

"I told her I'd make her a queen," he said.

"Neal," Elizabeth said softly.

"It doesn't matter," Neal shook his head and returned to the knife, carefully matchsticking a carrot. "She's dead, we're not. So. Send it to the museum, they'll authenticate it, put it on display. Maybe even present it to Her Majesty. That'd be good," he added, sounding amused. "Something I stole on the finger of the Queen of England."

"You can contact them tomorrow," Peter said.

"No need," Neal replied. "You can do it."

"That wasn't up for debate."

Neal paused. "Why? It doesn't matter who sends it back."

"Well, for a start," Peter said, leaning back in the chair, "you might have stolen it, but obviously if you took it out of a wall -- "

" -- nobody knew it was there." Neal nodded.

"And we've talked about you taking responsibility for your actions," Peter finished. "The bad and the good. Turning this over is something you can be proud of."

Neal tossed the carrots into the salad bowl. "You were kidnapped, held at gunpoint, and broke a jail cell today. How do you have the energy to give me a lecture?"

"Ate a good breakfast," Peter replied. Elizabeth giggled.

"Okay, enough," she said, picking up the ring and putting it in her pocket, standing to go to Neal and give him a hug from behind. "Take that out to the table, I'll get the casserole. Come on, sweetie," she called to Peter, who rose and followed them out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
>  **[Al Capone's Prison Cell](http://farm1.static.flickr.com/8/10763206_05196d42e7.jpg)** at Eastern State Penn (which, if you ever are in Philly and get a chance to visit, is a fascinating way to spend an afternoon)  
>  The Queen's Ornament is made up, sadly -- but it's a pretty neat story, eh?


	18. Chapter 18

Peter woke the next morning from crazy dreams -- El had insisted what they needed was Stupid Movie Night, and produced _Tiles Of Fire IV: Big City Player_ for their dubious viewing pleasure. It had filled his dreams with people whose mouths didn't sync to their words. His shoulders ached, the pain settling deep where the day before it had been nothing more than a mild cramp.

Elizabeth was curled up around his right side, pinning his arm; Neal, on his left, was in his favorite sleeping position, face smashed into the pillow -- how did he _breathe?_ \-- and one arm flung over Peter's stomach. When he shifted, trying to gently dislodge them so he could get up, Neal moved too, and a muffled grumble emerged from his pillow.

"Go back to sleep, it's early," Peter said, sliding out from under El, who rolled a little but didn't wake.

"No, I'm up now," Neal answered, turning his head. "Shoulders?"

Peter nodded, trying and failing to push himself up.

"Want some aspirin?"

"Please," Peter said, gratefully. Neal slid out of the bed, hitching his -- well, Peter's, stolen -- pyjamas a little higher on his hips. He returned quickly with a glass of water and two pills in his palm; Peter took them, sipped the water, and eased back down into the blankets. Neal sat on the bed, facing him, legs crossed, anklet tucked up under one knee.

"You look like you have something on your mind," Peter observed.

Neal half-smiled. "Keller."

"Ah. Thinking of ways to chase him down?"

"He called me a lawman."

"Terrible epithet," Peter said gravely. Neal shrugged.

"Sure you want to talk about him right now? Here?" he asked.

"If you do," Peter answered. Neal rubbed his neck, bowing his head.

"Say I had a friend," he said. "A friend who'd seen Keller kill someone. Point blank gunshot to the head, no provocation, no warning."

Peter went to push himself up on one elbow, grunted, and decided to stay where he was. "When did your _friend_ see this happen?"

"Eleven years ago."

He studied Neal carefully. "You were eighteen."

"That's true, but not the point. This friend of mine, he might have been involved in a diamond theft in Spain, intending to travel to France to sell the jewels. He and Keller had a third man for the job, who thought he might have dropped his passport at the scene. When Keller found out, he shot him. Turns out the passport was in his back pocket."

 _Oh, Neal_. "And what did this friend do?"

"Well, allegedly, he was scared shitless because he'd never seen anyone get shot before and didn't want to get shot himself," Neal said. His face was impassive, for the most part. "So he went back to France with Keller, and the minute Keller left him alone he bolted."

"You never mentioned this the last time we went after him," Peter said.

"I didn't remember," Neal's fingers flexed against each other. "Which is another problem but also not relevant right now. If my friend wanted to come forward with this information, would he be charged as an accessory?"

"I'm guessing he's a felon in custody."

"Yeah, but he's not looking for a reduced sentence. He just doesn't want to be charged."

"And this happened in Spain?"

"Barcelona."

"Makes it complicated," Peter said. Of course it was. Nothing involving Neal was ever simple. "I'd need to talk to Interpol and my counterparts over in Europe. They'd decide whether or not to charge you...r friend. I think something could be worked out. Bigger problem: this friend has it in for Keller?"

"In so many ways."

"And there's no way to link Keller to the murder?"

"Not after all this time," Neal admitted.

"So it'd be one felon's word against another, and your friend has a pretty good motive to lie. I don't think he is," Peter said, raising a hand when Neal opened his mouth. "But coming forward now, especially if he claims he forgot it for a decade, that's not the best witness testimony in the world."

"But if we tip off Interpol, at least they'd be looking a little harder for him, if he's left New York," Neal said. "So -- an anonymous tip? Maybe? Even if it goes nowhere."

"Sounds like you have two long-distance calls to make today," Peter said. Neal nodded. "What was his name?"

"The man Keller murdered?" Neal shook his head. "They just called him Ben."

"And you only just remembered all this?"

"I -- " Neal looked troubled for a moment, but he dropped the pretense now that Peter had. "Yeah. Which is weird, right? Something like that, you'd think it'd stay with you. I think I didn't want to remember. I got the hell out so fast...all I could think about was getting away."

"I can imagine." Peter said.

"I don't like guns," Neal said. "That's why."

Eighteen years old, on the run in a foreign city, seeing someone shot in the head by your lover -- yeah, that'd be something Peter would want to forget, too.

When he was eighteen he was starting college. The worst thing he'd had to worry about was his batting average.

"I'm hungry," Neal added, randomly. "You want breakfast?"

"Yeah," Peter agreed, because what else was he going to say? He rolled over and nudged Elizabeth. "Hon. Breakfast."

"Mmhm," she answered, elbowing him back.

"You getting up?"

"Yeah," she groaned, sliding out of bed. Peter slid the other way and politely ignored Neal's hand under his arm, helping him up. Neal ignored it too, for which he was grateful.

***

The Bureau, unsurprisingly, took a dim view of people assaulting its agents, and had a generous leave allowance in place for kidnapping victims. Peter seemed relatively untroubled by it all, and thought the mandatory leave was ridiculous; still, Neal could tell that Elizabeth was happy to have him home for a few days.

Neal left them at the house that day, avoiding Elizabeth's curious looks and well aware that as soon as he was gone Peter would be explaining things to her. That was what they did. It felt...oddly good that someone else knew, and he had no objections to Elizabeth being that someone. Besides, he had calls to make, and he'd need a Bureau land line to make them.

It was nine in the morning -- two in the afternoon, in Britain -- when he called the information line for the National Museum of Scotland. He managed to charm his way past the infodesk, into the phone line of an administrative assistant in Outreach, from there to the executive assistant to the curator, and there he hit a wall.

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't put you through to Ms. Barkley until I know why you're calling," the man said.

"Tell her it's regarding the Queen's Ornament," Neal tried.

"Sir, you may not be aware, but we do have a tipline for information regarding missing artefacts," the man replied. "I can put you through to our archaeology contacts at the University of Edinburgh -- "

"Okay, look, give a guy a hand here," Neal said. "Just put me on hold and find her and tell her Neal Caffrey is calling regarding the Queen's Ornament. She'll want to speak with me. And if she doesn't, you're out thirty seconds of time. Please."

He could almost _hear_ the eyeroll he was getting. "Hold just a moment," the man said, and a recorded message came on the line, detailing the hours the museum was open and its current exhibits. Neal listened with half an ear (the thief's half; they had a display of ancient silver coming soon) while he watched the White Collar taskforce's agents milling, talking, all of them carefully avoiding looking at Peter's empty office.

The recording cut out, and there was a ringtone.

"This is Lisa Barkley," said a pleasant female voice with a light, soft accent. "If this is a prank call, it had better at least be entertaining."

"Ms. Barkley," Neal said. "My name is Neal Caffrey -- "

"So I'm informed," she interrupted. "Mr. Caffrey, I'm more than aware of your reputation and if you're calling to play games with my museum, rest assured, you have made an extremely unwise decision."

Neal preened a little. Always nice to know his work was appreciated. "No ma'am," he said. "If you check your caller ID, you'll see I'm calling from the FBI's New York branch office. If you'd like to confirm, you can call the public number on the website, they'll put you through to an Agent Diana Barrigan who can verify my identity."

"First I'd like to know what you know about the Queen's Ornament," she said.

Neal sat back, holding the ring up to the light, tipping it around his index finger. "Well, I'm sitting here looking at it."

The was a soft intake of breath. "Prove it."

"Got an email address? I can send pictures. Or send someone from the British consulate to the FBI, they can collect it. It's the real thing," he added.

"Where did you find it?"

"Well, I won't admit to looting, but I have it on good authority it was pulled out of a wall on The Bass," Neal replied.

"The Queen's Ornament has been missing since Charles the First's death."

"Yeah, I know," Neal sighed. "I'm trying to do the right thing here and get the ring back where it belongs. Tell me what you want me to do with it and I'll do it. No games, no con."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

"Ma'am?" Neal ventured.

"I have a friend who works for the Museum of Natural History," she said. "He's a historical gem specialist. I think he can confirm the authenticity of the gem and set up a safe transport. I'll arrange for him to meet you at the museum. He'll call you with the details."

"My day is open," Neal replied.

"Good. I expect we'll be speaking soon, one way or another," she said. "Goodbye."

Well. No words minced there. Then again, he imagined she probably still thought he was trying to run a con. And, admittedly, the always-working portion of his brain was already trying to come up with a solid con that opened with the return of a priceless antique ring.

That afternoon he found himself strolling through the frankly creepy Hall Of Human Origins on his way to meet some guy named Albert in the permanent gem exhibit. He'd never bothered much with the Museum of Natural History; the only things they had worth stealing were gems, and he could get those anywhere if he wanted them. Even the Star of India sapphire didn't appeal; it wasn't like Neal was going to steal and cut the most beautiful sapphire on the planet, and certainly not from a museum. He might be a thief but he had standards.

Albert, Barkley's friend, turned out to be a short, slim man who looked more like a college student than a gem expert.

"Mr. Caffrey?" he asked, when Neal walked into the exhibit hall.

"My reputation precedes me," Neal said, offering his hand.

"We don't get many people in three-piece suits in the museum in the middle of a weekday," Albert told him. "Come with me, please."

He led Neal past the gems -- past the Star of India, and Neal did linger for a second to gawk. It was gorgeous; milky-blue, polished to a high, flawless shine, the six-pointed star gleaming white in the center of it.

"Our prize," Albert said, a faint smile on his face. "Lisa thinks you're probably here to steal it."

"I wouldn't," Neal murmured.

"Good. We're somewhat fond of it and it's already been stolen once; they found it in a bus locker in Miami, of all places. Sapphires are reputed to be healing gems -- warn their wearer of danger by changing color, cure scorpion bites when placed in water. But I expect you knew that," Albert continued, leading Neal through a door in the back of the exhibit and down a narrow hallway. "Emeralds, so they say, increase eloquence, restore eyesight, and prevent epilepsy."

"I think that was a hint," Neal said, as Albert opened the door into a small office, piled with paper but mostly filled with a long table covered in gems. Neal took the ring out of his pocket and passed it over.

"Now, I don't often get to handle sixteenth-century pieces, but I can give a preliminary evaluation of the setting and the gem, and it is a unique gem," Albert said, seating himself and holding a jeweler's glass up to his eye. He switched on a light nearby and studied the emerald in the ring. "Hm. Well, you definitely have a real emerald solitaire here, and it looks like the stone reputed to have been in the Queen's Ornament," he added, looking up at Neal. "Lisa says you found it in a wall on the Bass Rock?"

"Someone did," Neal corrected smoothly. Albert gave him a sardonic look.

"Mr. Caffrey, believe it or not, I've dealt with much shadier characters than you," he said. "Let's be frank, shall we?"

Neal cocked his head. "Nothing official?"

"Off the record. You took this from the castle on The Bass?"

Neal nodded.

"Can I ask why? A man of your skills seems to be in a position to make a much bigger score than this. You haven't removed the diamonds or cut up the emerald for sale, so the academic in me is curious."

"It was an engagement gift," Neal said.

"Ah. She say no?" Albert asked.

"No. She died."

Albert's face softened. "My condolences on your loss," he replied. He looked like he meant it, too, and Neal glanced away. After a second, Albert spoke again. "Well, I'll run some tests on it here, and send it on with my report. They'll probably have some period experts across the pond have a look, but if it all pans out, we should know in two or three weeks. I'll make sure they send you a letter of thanks, and the finder's fee, of course."

"The what?" Neal asked.

"The finder's fee. I think it's obnoxious; it encourages treasure hunters, which are the bane of our existence. They do more harm than good, most of the time. But this," Albert held up the ring, "if it is the real thing, is one of the national historic treasures of Great Britain. The Crown will be suitably thankful for its return. Ten percent, probably."

"That's two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"A small price to pay, for the Queen's Ornament. On display it'll generate millions in ticket sales, especially with a good story attached to it," Albert replied. "Not the way you would have wanted things to end, maybe, but we are grateful, Mr. Caffrey. Even me. The opportunity to examine a gem like this doesn't come along every day."

"You'll make sure it's safe?" Neal asked.

Albert paused, leaning back in his chair. He looked like he understood. Neal wasn't sure he knew himself why he'd asked.

"Yes. It'll be well-protected in transit, secured at the National Museum of Scotland when it arrives." He set the ring on his desk, fingers resting on it. "If I can make a suggestion...whatever the finder's fee is, it will be a significant amount. You can choose to donate the fee to the National Museum of Scotland, or to the Museum of Natural History, for that matter. You could fund security for the ring, endow a position, support a gallery. Something to consider."

"When you send it to Barkley, tell her I don't want my name involved in the publicity," Neal said.

"That's modest of you."

"Honestly? I don't need the heat."

Albert smiled. "I can understand that. If you have no other questions, let me show you out."

He left Neal at the front of the museum with a handshake and his thanks; Neal stood in the sunlight and watched cars go past, street vendors selling food and trinkets to tourists.

Two hundred and fifty grand would solve a lot of his looming cash flow problems. On the other hand, he could give it to the Museum of Natural History, or even the Whitney -- they were about to do a new building anyway. The Kate Moreau New Artist's Gallery had a nice sound.

***

The week dragged on, without Peter at the office. Diana seemed to have warmed to him a little -- Neal guessed getting chewed out by Hughes created some kind of bond between them -- but both she and Neal were on cold cases while Jones ran Peter's active ones in his absence.

They couldn't even officially chase down Keller. As an escaped felon, the Marshals wanted him, but Hughes had consulted with whoever called those shots for the Bureau and had Keller classified as a domestic terrorist. He was officially being chased by the Marshals, the FBI's terrorism unit, and three frighteningly efficient Homeland Security attachés who spent two hours interrogating Neal about the kidnapping.

Mozzie, of course, was also on the case, but he hadn't heard a whisper of Keller since he disappeared. His personal theory was that Keller had booked it out of New York to a pre-arranged safehouse, which was what Neal or Mozzie would have done in his place.

"Cockroaches have to come out of the walls sometime," Mozzie said, after the third unsuccessful day, picking at the remains of a sandwich, sitting in the cool, air-conditioned comfort of a local café. New York was in the grip of a heat wave that was only going to get worse before it got better, and the humidity was making Mozzie cranky. "Look, Neal, let's put some standing precautions in place and then ditch this chase, it's going nowhere. We have bigger fish to fry."

"I know," Neal sighed.

"He took Peter," Mozzie translated.

"Yeah, but it's more than that." Neal ran a hand through his hair. "I told Keller I'd catch him."

"Far be it from me to hold the Suit up as an example, but it took him three years to catch you," Mozzie said. "You play by Suit rules, you gotta measure by Suit timelines."

"Keller's still overdue. And you're still right," Neal admitted. "We have bigger problems. How's the antenna coming?"

"Got most of the parts. I think I can start building soon. Should be done by next week if I can get the casings and the die-cut finished this weekend."

Neal nodded. "Okay. Forget Keller. Let's focus on that. You need anything from me?"

"Do you have an RF amplifier from 1943 with the original intact dials?"

"Um...no," Neal said.

"Then you have nothing I need," Mozzie told him, and left Neal to pay the check.

Neal's phone rang on the way back to the office, and Elizabeth's number came up; he answered cheerfully, glad to hear from her. He'd been shooting annoyed, bored emails at Peter all week, and their mutual complaining at each other ("Cold cases are boring." "I'd kill for a cold case, I'm on my ass watching hockey reruns.") had reached a fever pitch.

"Hey, sweetie," Elizabeth said, when he answered. "It's Friday night. Dinner, our place? Peter's making me crazy."

"Familiarity, contempt..."

"Something like that," she laughed. "I think they made him stay home so I'd remember how much I like it when he's working and happy." There was a muffled " _I heard that!_ " in the background. "Come, eat, distract him."

"Love to. What should I bring?"

"Yourself, some wine. And Peter wants something from his desk." There was a clatter, and then Peter's voice.

"Tell Jones I want the statement in my top drawer," Peter said. "He has the key."

"Very cloak-and-dagger," Neal replied.

"I don't suppose it's any use telling you not to read it on the way over," Peter sighed.

Neal paused, long enough that Peter said, "Neal?"

"Will you explain it when I get there?" Neal asked.

"Yeah. I'll need your help going over it."

"Then I won't read it," Neal said, feeling unusually virtuous. At least, it was either that or indigestion.

"That's...good," Peter said cautiously. "See you around six?"

"Wouldn't miss it. Kiss Elizabeth for me."

"Good as done," Peter told him, and hung up.

Neal looked down at his phone, as if it was going to explain the insanity of his life, then pocketed it and took himself off to buy some wine for dinner.

***

When Neal let himself into the house that evening, he got a blast of mercifully cold air conditioning. The cab over had been tepid at best, and the driver had insisted on keeping the windows down. Neal felt...rumpled.

"Neal?" Elizabeth called from the dining room.

"Nope. Neal melted," Neal answered, as she came into the foyer to kiss him hello. "I'm a puddle."

"I know, it's awful, isn't it?" she asked. "Did you hear they're going to rolling blackouts to conserve energy?"

"Makes me fantasize about the Alps," Neal said. "News said someone died today."

"I know, it's tragic." Elizabeth took him by the hand, leading him through the house. "And it's way too hot to cook. Peter's got the grill going."

"Manly, and carcinogenic," Neal remarked, peering through the back window. Peter was doing something complicated with tongs. "Don't make me help him. Please."

"Relax, Peter doesn't let anyone else touch the grill," Elizabeth said. "You could go keep him company, though."

Neal glanced down at her. "Subtle hint?"

"My advice, take off a few of those layers first," she suggested, fingering the lapel of his jacket.

"Fashion is sometimes uncomfortable," he told her, but he shed his coat while she undid his tie bar, then worked on his cufflinks as she unbuttoned his shirt. "Hey," he added, and kissed her again. "I miss you. Seems like it's been forever."

"Miss you too," she answered, kissing him back. "And you're still not getting out of going out there."

"Ploy too obvious?" he asked, groaning.

"Air conditioning makes for desperate measures, I know. It's okay, I still think you're cute," she said, and helped him shrug out of his shirt. It did feel better in just his undershirt. "Go give him that mysterious report he made you fetch."

Peter looked up when Neal slipped outside. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt and smiled. "Hey."

"Hey," Neal said, leaning against the wall. Satchmo, wilting in the heat but unwilling to give up his watch on the grill, whined and panted in Neal's direction. "What's on?"

"Steaks. Couple of hot dogs. Tofu kebabs," Peter added, and Neal made a face. "They're not bad if you dunk 'em in steak sauce."

"I'll take your word for it," Neal answered. "Stir-crazy yet?"

"Little bit," Peter admitted. "You got something for me?"

Neal held up the report, sealed in an envelope. Peter gave him a pleased look.

"So what is this? New case?" Neal asked.

"Kind of. When Lang gave his statement, I had him list off all the FBI agents who'd gotten on his case," Peter said. "They might have legitimately harassed him. Depends on what I find out going over the list."

Neal raised an eyebrow. "You sure you want to put that many Bureau noses out of joint? Lang's not an innocent lamb."

Peter shrugged. "We stand for something. We abuse that -- well, you know how it ends up. Like Deckard. I don't like sharing my clubhouse with bullies, whether or not Lang's been making mischief. I just want to see who's doing what, maybe pass a quiet word along to a few people in the right places."

Neal pushed away from the wall and came forward, slowly; in the glaring orange light of the evening they were too visible for him to do much, but he hooked his fingers around Peter's wrist briefly, bumped his knuckles against Peter's.

"I don't understand you," he said quietly. "How you are the way you are."

"What are you talking about?" Peter asked, amused.

"Nothing," Neal said, because of course Peter wasn't even aware of it -- the casual, vital morality of him. "It's a good idea, I'll help."

"You just want to incriminate a few FBI agents."

"Well, can't hurt," Neal agreed, and backed away as Peter opened the grill again. Heat rolled out into the already baking air.

***

Peter hadn't ever really paid that much attention to bodies.

Well, obviously he noticed good-looking people. It was just that the particular shape of the body never really registered. He liked brains, and he would cop to a certain preference for dark hair, but beyond that his desires weren't generally dictated by physical attributes, especially when it came to gender. And neither were his actions, which was actually more problematic.

He just didn't see why he shouldn't be allowed to put an arm around someone he loved, especially in the privacy of his own home. It had been, amusingly in retrospect, a major source of relationship angst when he was dating Mike: apparently cops didn't let their boyfriends hug them from behind and kiss the back of their neck for no reason, and Feds shouldn't do that kind of thing even in private.

Peter liked to touch the people he loved. Elizabeth always went easily, relaxing immediately into his arms. For a long time it had visibly confused Neal, that Peter treated him with the same intimacy as he did Elizabeth; he would tense, but only for a second before he gave in. After a while, even the sudden startle had stopped -- Neal liked being touched, he just didn't expect it. The tension was back now, fallout from his attack on Fowler, a consequence Peter hadn't liked or intended, but he was confident that would pass. Never more so than at the moment, because Neal had just...

Neal wasn't really _helping_ with the review of Lang's statement, at least not directly, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Peter, full from dinner and pleased to be back in the air conditioning, had his legs propped up on the coffee table, laptop balanced on one thigh; Neal was sprawled over the rest of the sofa on his back, head on Peter's other leg, reviewing the names and dates from the statement, absorbing the information. He hadn't even complained about the ball game on in the background. He'd just gone from sitting to leaning to sprawling, until Peter had looked down and said, "Hello," and Neal had grinned up at him innocently, thumping his head gently against Peter's thigh. Touching, without being asked, without Peter touching first.

"Next name?" Peter prompted.

"Why wait till now to do all this?" Neal asked, instead of answering. "Lang gave this statement days ago."

"Friday night," Peter said. "Nobody's at the Bureau. Nobody's around to catch me digging in their files."

"Sneaky. I like it," Neal said.

"Name, Neal."

"Just says _Think his name was Powell,_ " Neal answered, ruffling the pages. "Maybe Named Powell came after him in early '05 and confiscated his camera equipment for two weeks."

"Powell..." Peter shuffled through the FBI personnel database. "There's like nine Powells in the New York branch."

"He says Powell called him a pornographer," Neal continued.

"Ah." Peter clicked a name. "That'd be Cybercrime. Obscenity investigation. Young guy, looks like."

"They're all young, have you noticed that? Is that what FBI guys do, make their chops busting easy targets?" Neal asked.

"Some of us," Peter said, and rested a hand on Neal's head -- not petting like Elizabeth liked to do, just holding him there. Like he used to hold Satchmo in place when he was a puppy and learning to stay. "Some of us like a challenge."

Neal hummed contentedly, turning his face into Peter's palm a little.

 _This is mine,_ Peter thought, and a mixture of fear and pleasure raced through him. He hadn't ever been into kinky stuff; he'd never thought to hold someone else's safety in his hands, not like this. But it felt right, for good reasons and for ones he suspected weren't the most proper. True, he'd put his own safety in Neal's hands when he needed to escape Lang's cell, but that had been expedient: Neal was the escape artist, after all. In all other things, Neal seemed...well, sometimes Peter caught an expression on Neal's face that said he didn't like being owned, being imprisoned -- he didn't _like_ the anklet -- and wouldn't have tolerated it for anyone else.

But he did for Peter.

Neal was a wild mess of genius and impulse and potentially the lowest self-esteem of anyone Peter had ever met. He understood his skills to their most precise measure and had no illusions about them, but he didn't find much worth in himself as a person, merely as someone who procured: art, an entertainment for an evening, sex, money.

Peter wanted Neal's brilliance like a treasure, _wanted_ to own Neal's wildness and teach him to put it to use. He wanted Neal to satisfy his urges with good work -- babbling high off a case at two in the morning or bent over a forged document for three days straight to find the flaw or covered in graphite in a lover's bed as he sketched. Neal could be something brilliant and good in this world, if he could learn how. He wanted Neal to understand that.

This was a good start, Neal lying with his head on Peter's thigh. Comfortable. Protected.

"Okay, so then in May of '05 -- Aaron Clark, isn't he one of ours?" Neal asked, looking up at Peter upside-down. "White Collar, I mean?"

"Yeah. Should have full access to the file," Peter said, scrolling through the database. It looked like Clark had gone after Lang for potential money laundering, but hadn't found anything more improper than unpaid taxes on cash transactions. He was so engrossed in the report he didn't notice Elizabeth had joined them until he felt Neal squirm against his leg and heard Elizabeth laugh. When he looked up, Neal was on his side, Elizabeth snug in the curve of his body, Neal's hand on her thigh. His other hand was toying with the collar of her shirt, wrist resting across the back of her neck. Peter watched indulgently as Neal pulled her hair around over her shoulder and cupped her cheek. Elizabeth looked over at him, eyes dancing.

Neal wriggled his whole body, a move that if Peter tried it would probably sprain something, and his shoulders pressed up against Peter's leg, head now snug against his stomach. Elizabeth leaned over him and nuzzled Peter's neck.

"Is this a hint?" Peter asked, turning to kiss her.

"Finish in the morning," she replied.

"Five minutes," he said, turning back to the report. Elizabeth made a resigned noise. "What? Go, fool around, I'll be up soon. Promise."

"Come on," Neal said, rolling off the couch and pulling her upright with both arms, staggering a little as they got to their feet. Peter heard them going up the stairs, heard a laugh and voices through the ceiling, but only as background noise. In his head, he was already writing timelines, incorporating information -- one for the Bureau's activities surrounding Lang, another for Lang's activities themselves.

***

"So," Neal said, sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling Elizabeth into the gap between his legs, one hand brushing her hair back from her face. "You think twenty minutes? Forty?"

She laughed and kissed him. "I never place bets, with Peter. It's okay."

"If I had you -- "

"You do have me, sweetheart," she said, while Neal's fingers tugged on the fly of her shorts.

"You know what I mean," Neal replied, not looking at her. She tipped his chin up, but his eyes darted away. "If I had you, I wouldn't be downstairs chasing ghosts."

"Listen to me." She cupped his cheeks. "Peter might miss dinners or forget the dry-cleaning or spend a Friday night working on cases. But I know that when he's here..." she gestured between them, "when he's with me, he's completely with me. When I get him I get all of him."

"You're happy with that?"

"Of course. Aren't you?" she asked, unbuckling his belt. Neal sucked in a sharp breath that had nothing to do with her hands. "What?"

"Didn't think of it like that," he said, and pulled her close, kissing her. She laughed again and pushed on his chest, sliding her hands down to his hips to help him off with his clothes. She tugged his pants down his thighs, following them down over his legs, easing the cuff around his anklet.

Neal, she knew, liked this anklet better than the last -- he probably thought it was more stylish, or maybe it was just that it was lighter. But she missed the other one. This one was black and sleek and looked less like something someone threw together than it did something designed, deliberately created. And it looked like it was attached at the skin, an implant Neal would never be rid of. Alien.

Neal's hand was in her hair again, fingertips brushing along her scalp, and he obviously wasn't worried about it, so why should she be? She leaned forward and kissed the inside of his thigh. He looked down at her, so...openly pleased, like she was the best thing he'd ever seen.

He moaned, though, when she took him in her mouth, eyes closing, mouth dropping open -- moaned and drew in huge breaths, his hand tightening a little in her hair. He didn't let her stay there for long, not as long as she would have liked. Instead he tugged until she pulled away, then drew her forward onto the bed, hips hitching against hers, little thrusts that seemed almost involuntary. Neal didn't lose control often, even in bed, but it was exciting and a little nerve-wracking when he did.

"Hush, shh. Slow," she said, pushing him onto his back, kissing him while his hands strayed over her body. He settled a little, seemingly happy with just this.

"I wasn't lying," he said, around a kiss. "I did miss you."

"It's been a long few weeks," she answered.

"Mm, don't wanna think about it," he replied, hands going to her hips. She smiled and slid forward just a little, lifted up and sank down on his cock. He arched, eyes closing again.

She kept it slow, the way she wanted it, and it only took Neal a minute or two to get with the game. When he stopped fighting it and relaxed another fraction, she rocked forward and rested her head against his chest, letting him wrap his arms around her. He was quiet, for Neal, but he held her tightly. When he came, it was with a jerky, drawn-out exhale.

And a murmured apology.

"Don't be sorry," she said quietly, kissing his forehead.

"I wanted you to -- "

"It's okay. I just wanted to be with you for a while," she answered. He smiled again, that same brilliant, pleased, honest smile.

"Has it been more than half an hour yet?" he asked, and she laughed. "Want me to go rustle up Peter?"

"No need," Peter's voice, from the landing; he appeared in the doorway, a shadow in the darkness, a second later. "Told you I wouldn't be long."

"Long enough," Neal answered, turning to watch as Peter undressed. His voice was low, easy -- bathed in afterglow. Elizabeth scooted away, off and back, so that Peter could climb over Neal into the middle of the bed.

"You should see to Elizabeth," Neal said, curling himself around Peter's shoulder so that they both faced her, Peter's hand warm on her hip.

"Mm?" Peter raised his eyebrows at her. She let him draw her closer, felt his hand trace down over her thigh even as Neal's reached around Peter to cup her breast.

"Oh, that's," she gasped, leaning into Peter's touch. Kissing was a little awkward, but she didn't want Neal to stop touching her either. She twisted, hooking a leg around Peter's thigh. Neal was whispering something in Peter's ear, too soft for her to hear, probably something dirty --

Peter curled his fingers just right, and Neal bit down on Peter's shoulder, and she closed her eyes and came, a long slow roll of pleasure, collapsing against Peter when she was done. She cuddled up against him, reaching down over his stomach, but he wasn't even hard. She raised an eyebrow.

Peter grinned and bent his head; Neal was sliding away, already curling up to sleep.

"I watched you," Peter said softly, and Elizabeth almost came _again_.

"Why didn't you come in?" she asked, after she'd swallowed and regained a little equilibrium. Peter gave a half shrug.

"You looked like you were having fun."

He was smiling in the darkness, more smug than he had any right to be. After a few seconds, she put together why he might be so self-satisfied, and she punched him lightly on the arm.

"You planned this," she said, and his smile widened.

"Little bit," he replied. "I thought you and Neal might like some time."

She rubbed at the corner of his mouth, affectionately. "Honey, you know you never have to step back for Neal."

"No, it's not about that," he said. "I know. I just thought you might like it, both of you. I'm not afraid we're losing...you know, _us_. Are you?"

"No," she admitted. "And it was nice to have him all to myself for a little while."

***

Neal woke early on Saturday morning, unbearably warm, sweaty and damp, Peter's skin slick under his when he rolled away. God, it had to be a million degrees in the bedroom. And the clock on Elizabeth's side of the bed was blinking 12:00, 12:00, 12:00.

"Peter," he shook Peter, bending over the bed. "Wake up. Power outage."

"Nnnh," Peter moaned, rolling away.

"Peter, Elizabeth," Neal persisted, shaking them both. Elizabeth sat up, brushing sweat-soaked hair out of her face. "Power went out."

"It's like an oven in here," Elizabeth said, sliding away from Peter and stopping only long enough to pull a half-buttoned shirt over herself before lifting the blinds and opening a window. It didn't help much; the breeze that stirred the curtains was hot. Neal stuck to the shadowed half of the bedroom, more aware than either of them that anyone could be looking in.

"Too many blankets," Peter muttered. "Arrest 'em."

"Sweetie, wake up," Elizabeth said, ruffling his hair. Peter started awake, pushing himself up on an elbow. "Power went out, A/C's not working."

"I'll check the breaker," Peter answered, rolling out of bed and incidentally showing his ass to the world through the open bedroom window. Neal tossed him a pair of pajama pants. Peter pulled them on, yawning, and staggered down the stairs while Elizabeth checked the news on her phone. Neal rubbed at his tracker with his other foot, trying to ease the heat of it around his ankle.

"Rolling blackouts," Elizabeth said. "Looks like it hit early this morning."

"Damn!" Peter's voice echoed up the stairway.

"Honey?" Elizabeth called, worried.

"There must have been a surge on the grid," Peter said, standing halfway up the stairs. "Central air's shorted out. No A/C."

"Are you kidding me?" Elizabeth asked. Peter shook his head. "Honey, we have no fans, either."

"Yeah, I know." Peter ran a hand through his damp hair. "I'll call the repair company."

"On a weekend? Good luck," Elizabeth said. There was a plaintive whine from downstairs. "Oh, Satchmo baby! I'll get him a bowl of icewater," she added brushing past Peter down the stairs. Neal wandered out to the landing, wondering whether he could sneak into the shower before either of them caught on.

"Nice hair, Einstein," Peter commented. Neal brushed it back.

"The museum has internet, and air conditioning," Elizabeth called from the kitchen. "I have a meeting at ten anyway, I might as well head there."

"I'm jumping ship, this place is an oven," Neal announced.

"I could go to the Bureau," Peter said thoughtfully.

"Gee, working on a Saturday? That's not like you," Neal told him.

"Just until the stores open, I'll get us an air conditioner," Peter grumbled.

"Honey, we can't leave Satch here, he'll bake," Elizabeth put in, appearing at the bottom of the stairs. They could hear Satchmo noisily slurping water from below.

"Well, I can't take him with me, I'd have to leave him in the car. He'll bake worse there."

"Okay!" Neal said, because none of this was getting him into a cold shower any faster. "Take Satchmo and me to June's, drop Elizabeth off at the museum, get in a few hours at the Bureau and then pick Satchmo up on your way home with your A/C."

Both of them looked up at him, their faces unreadable.

"What?" he asked.

"That was adorably domestic," Elizabeth said.

"I'm taking a shower," Neal replied, retreating to the bathroom.

***

The cold shower helped, somewhat, but by the time Peter and Elizabeth had washed and dressed, packed up what they needed and gathered up Satchmo, Neal felt wilted by the heat again. The air conditioning in the Taurus was a welcome relief, and even Satch seemed to perk up, nosing slyly into the front seat to sniff at the cold air blowing out of the vents. Neal hauled him back by his collar and Satchmo gave him the most reproachful look he'd ever seen on a dog.

"So what museum are you working for?" Neal asked, as Peter navigated them through Manhattan.

"The Museum of Evil," Peter muttered.

"Wow, we really do have everything in New York."

"Shh," Elizabeth said, giving Peter a stern look. "It's not a museum of evil. It's just the new gallery was donated by an evil man. And he's not evil, really. Just...demanding."

"He's a jerk," Peter said.

"Honey, I work with a lot of jerks, he's one among many," Elizabeth said calmly. "Andrew's a very rich man with a lot of toys and he's decided to put them all in a museum. The party's for the opening of the Stanzler gallery at the Giller."

"You're working for _Andrew Stanzler?_ " Neal asked, eyes widening.

"If you rob the Giller I will strangle you," Peter said without missing a beat.

"The new gallery's all the arts rags have been talking about for weeks!" Neal said. "The opening's next Saturday, it's going to be a huge event. Um. No pressure, Elizabeth," he added.

"Believe me, you couldn't possibly put more pressure on me than Andrew does," Elizabeth assured him.

"Have you seen the collection?" Neal asked. "The private collection, I mean. Rumor has it Stanzler has a Lippi but I'm pretty sure it's a fake."

"And how do you know that?" Peter asked.

"I may have been in the vicinity when he bought it at auction," Neal hedged. It had been one of the fake paintings sold the night Adler bought his Uccello.

"Is it _your_ fake?"

"No, I don't like Lippi," Neal said sullenly.

"I could probably get you an invitation to the opening," Elizabeth offered.

"Yes!" Neal answered, at the same time Peter said, "No!"

"Oh come on, Peter, I'm not going to rob a museum in front of Elizabeth," Neal said, a little indignant. "Give me some credit here."

"I give you just enough credit to want you nowhere near a private art collection in a brand new gallery wing that hasn't had its security tested yet," Peter replied. "More importantly, if someone else decided to hit the museum that night, you'd be on the hook for it."

"Oh," Neal said thoughtfully. "I take your point."

"Yeah. Look, just give it a few weeks. Next month, I'll take you there myself," Peter said.

"Peter!" Neal gave him a pleased look, leaning around the seat. Satchmo growled, annoyed.

"What? He has a Honus Wagner, I want to see it," Peter said.

Neal sat back, baffled. "Did you just name an artist I've never heard of?" he asked.

"It's a baseball card," Peter said. "I'm surprised you don't know it. It's worth about two mil, mint condition."

"I never really got into sports memorabilia," Neal said.

"Wagner was one of the best pro players ever. There are only fifty-seven Wagner cards in the world."

"There are fewer than thirty paintings by Hieronymus Bosch in the world," Neal pointed out.

"Hieronymus Bosch didn't have a .327 lifetime batting average," Peter replied.

"And we're here!" Elizabeth interrupted, just as Neal was about to launch into a heated defense of fine art versus _baseball cards_. "Satchmo, be good for Neal," she told the dog, leaning back to kiss Satch on the muzzle. Neal gathered up Satchmo's leash and climbed out of the car.

"Be back in a few hours," Peter told him. "Try not to wreak havoc."

"I make no promises," Neal said, and hurried up to June's house, Satchmo bounding along beside him. He found June on the terrace, under the shade of an enormous umbrella, drinking iced coffee.

"Hello, Neal!" she called, as he let himself out through the french doors. "My goodness, it's hot out."

"You're telling me," Neal said, unclipping Satchmo's leash.

"Oh, and who is this lovely boy?" she asked. Satchmo beelined for her and sat down excitedly, fidgeting, panting.

"June, this is Satchmo, Satchmo, June," Neal said, pulling out a chair and pouring a glass of icewater from a sweating pitcher on the table. "Peter and Elizabeth's air conditioning died. I'm looking after him for a few hours until Peter picks up a new one, didn't think you'd mind."

"Not at all. I'm sure Bugsy will find him fascinating," June said. There was a soft growl from behind one of the (slightly wilting) potted plants nearby.

"I'm...just gonna put him inside," Neal said, whistling at Satchmo. "Come on, buddy, you can find all the dropped popcorn from the last time we had movie night."

When Peter rolled up in the Taurus, that afternoon, the entire backseat was taken up by a giant cardboard box.

"Gee, you think you got one big enough?" Neal asked, opening the door and hustling Satchmo into the front seat.

"Repair company says they're booked solid," Peter replied. "They can't get anyone out until next week, and the heat wave isn't supposed to break for another ten days."

"Well, that ought to keep you subzero," Neal said. "See you Monday?"

"Bright and early. Thanks for looking after Satch."

Neal smiled and rubbed Satchmo's ears. "Drive safe."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
>  **[The Star Of India Sapphire](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Star_of_India_%28gem%29)** resides at the Museum of Natural History and does have a fascinating story attached to it.  
>  **[Honus Wagner!](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/T206_Honus_Wagner)** Expensive card, pretty good baseball player.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Scene play gone briefly wrong; panic attacks.

Neal slept late on Sunday, and woke to find Mozzie and June playing cards under the shade umbrella on the terrace, the remains of breakfast pushed to one side. Fruit on ice, still wonderfully cold; Neal took a couple of apple slices and sat back to watch them play. They both cheated, which made it especially fun. At one point there were six aces.

"You must fix that tell," June told Mozzie, and Neal almost choked on his fruit.

"What tell?" Mozzie squawked.

"Whenever you're about to do something sneaky, you rub your ring," June said, pointing to the ring on Mozzie's index finger. "Just a little flick of the thumb."

"June," Neal groaned. "I've been using that against him for years, you've ruined it."

"Challenge is good for you," June told him. "Builds character."

"I do not," Mozzie insisted.

"Look, the edge is shiny where you rub it," June said. Mozzie tucked his finger against his palm. "I'm only trying to help, dear."

"Heat makes him cranky," Neal said, licking the last of the juice off his fingers and standing up. "I'm retreating to the air conditioning."

"Mischief?" Mozzie asked, brightening.

"Just painting," Neal replied. "Got some reading to do, too. How much do you know about Demuth?"

Mozzie shrugged. "Post-European, walked with a limp, gay, Figure Five In Gold. Why?"

"No reason," Neal answered. "I was thinking of working in his later style. Getting away from the Impressionists."

"I saw your butchered Monet," Mozzie said. "Very subtle."

"Everyone's a critic," Neal sighed.

Inside, his phone was ringing -- Peter's ringtone, and he decided to conspire with Elizabeth to sedate Peter on weekends.

"Miss me?" he asked, picking up.

"Yeah, but my aim is improving," Peter replied. "Am I interrupting anything?"

"Nope," Neal said, wandering back out onto the terrace. "Just enjoying late breakfast. Why?"

"Got a case," Peter said.

"Are you in the office?" Neal asked. Mozzie rolled his eyes; June just smiled gently.

"No," Peter said indignantly.

"I can hear paper rustling."

"I'm...working from home," Peter admitted. "It's a serious case, Neal, we need to get the jump on this on Monday. I'm heading into the office early, I want you to go straight to the site."

"Sure," Neal said. "What site, exactly?"

Peter sighed into the phone. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but Stanzler's our case. I need you to meet me at the Giller."

Neal did a little _yes_ arm-pump. Mozzie gave him a narrow look. "I will be there!"

"Nine on the dot. Elizabeth said our informant is jumpy."

"Nine it is," Neal said. "Promise not to bring my lockpicks."

"How is this my life?" Peter asked. "See you then," he added, and hung up. Neal set the phone on the table and leaned back into the sunlight at the edge of the umbrella's shade, beaming.

"What's got you so excited?" Mozzie asked.

"Nine am meeting in the new Stanzler wing of the Giller tomorrow," Neal said.

"Lovely museum," June murmured.

"Cool!" Mozzie agreed. "You know, they have a new Honus Wagner on display?"

Neal stared at him.

"What?" Mozzie asked. "It's worth -- "

"Two million, .327 lifetime batting average," Neal said. "I know."

"I didn't know you were into baseball cards."

"I'm just a fountain of unexpected knowledge," Neal groaned.

***

Neal never did get to see the Honus Wagner card.

Certainly not the first time he met Brooke, with a wide smile and the easy lie that he was Special Agent Peter Burke, _Hi hon, good to see you._ There was a small thrill in kissing Elizabeth in public, just like there always was on the rare occasions he got to do it. And Neal would be lying if he said he'd never thought about what it would be like to be Peter.

This wasn't really how he'd envisioned it. And Elizabeth made him tell Peter even though he'd clearly called dibs on her doing it.

"It'll be fine, _sweetie_ ," Elizabeth had said, and shoved him out the door of the museum shortly after Neal insisted she be the one to tell him. "I promise Peter won't kill you."

"You're going to feel really guilty when they find my body," Neal called. "If they find my body," he added to himself, in a grumble, as his phone rang.

"Peter," he said, putting every ounce of sincerity into his answer.

"I'm pulling up now," Peter sounded disgruntled already.

"Don't bother finding parking," Neal replied.

"Crap. Did she back out?"

"Ummm. No," Neal said, which was the truth. "Listen, just pull into the turnaround, you can pick me up."

"Why am I already hating the sound of this? What did you do?"

"Nothing! Well. Okay. Something. Tell you in the car," Neal said, and hung up before Peter could interrogate him further. A few seconds later Diana's car rolled up in front of him.

"What's up with the car?" Neal asked, climbing in.

"Got to the office fine, wouldn't start when I left to come here. Got one of the motor pool guys looking at it," Peter said, pulling back out into traffic. "What the hell happened?"

"Maybe we should wait until you're not -- "

"Neal, so help me God," Peter growled, hands flexing on the steering wheel.

"Okay, um. Before we get to that, I ran into Sara on my way to the museum," Neal began.

"She's back from Argentina?"

"Yeah, and she has a file for us." Neal held it up. "She thinks Adler was living on a compound in Argentina. It was burned down, he's probably long gone. She talked to some people who worked for him -- also some llamas, funny story -- "

"The point?" Peter suggested.

"He's looking for a man named Gerhardt Wagner," Neal said. Peter looked at him. "Driving, not staring! Driving!"

Peter turned his eyes back to the road. "The Nazi doctor?"

"You know who he is?"

"I don't know. There was a Gerhard Wagner in charge of the Nazi medical branch, but he died decades ago."

"Probably not him, then," Neal said.

Peter pressed the call button on the steering wheel. "Call Diana."

" _Hey, boss_ ," Diana's voice echoed through the car. " _What's up?_ "

"Diana, I want you to look into a German named Gerhardt Wagner," Peter said. "Get me a list of Nazi soldiers by that name. You'll probably hit a file on a doctor, pull that but don't concentrate on it."

" _Our Argentina connection?_ " she asked.

"Could be. Intel's coming from Sara Ellis. Talk to her if you need to. Let me know what you find. We're on our way back now."

" _Any luck with the Stanzler thing?_ "

"I'll let you know," Peter said, casting a glance at Neal, and hung up. " _Do_ we have any luck on the Stanzler thing?"

"Well, the good news is, Brooke's agreed to work with us," Neal said.

"And the bad news?"

"I might have told her I was an FBI agent. Just to keep her calm!" Neal said, when Peter almost lost control of the car. "She was seriously freaking out. I get why, you weren't wrong about Stanzler being a jackass."

"You said you were a federal agent?" Peter demanded.

"Not, not exactly," Neal said. He waited for Peter to stop at a red light before continuing. "I told her I was you."

He expected some kind of explosion; at the very least, some yelling. Peter just inhaled deeply.

"I can't drive and kill you at the same time," he said finally. "So you're going to sit quietly and think about what you've done and when we get to the Federal Building we'll revisit this."

Neal spent about half the time coming up with ways to talk Peter into accepting the situation and the rest of the time running through a mental checklist of Peter's mannerisms so that when he did talk Peter into it, he'd be prepared.

After all, he figured, act like the man you want to be. If Vincent Adler had done nothing else useful for Neal, he'd taught him that.

***

Peter thought that they had survived Brooke's visit to the FBI pretty well. Ideally, he should have introduced himself as a colleague of Agent Burke's. How hard would it have been? "I'm Special Agent Edison. Nice to meet you."

He wondered if his momentary freeze-up was just the stress of the situation, or if he'd _wanted_ to be introduced as Neal Caffrey. He knew better than to want to be Neal, but he couldn't deny he'd wondered what it was like. Wondered what was locked up inside that felonious head of Neal's. If there was some kind of sympathetic magic that could show him Neal's secrets if he walked around as Neal, he had yet to discover it, unfortunately.

What he did discover, buried up to his elbows in classified files with two senior DOJ archivists supervising his search, was Gerhardt Wagner's secret.

The motor pool guys had fixed his car, thankfully, and he called Sara on the way to Neal's.

"Got a present for you," he said, when she picked up.

"Is it pretty?" she asked.

"I think it might be. I found a lead on Gerhardt Wagner. I'm on my way to Neal's place now to go over it. Want me to pick you up?"

"I'll be waiting with bated breath," she replied.

She was, in fact, waiting outside when he pulled up; he popped the passenger door for her and pulled away again, ignoring the enraged honking behind him.

"So, what's the story?" she asked, buckling her seat belt.

"Gerhardt Wagner was a Nazi radio operator," Peter said, pulling through a yellow light. "U-boat headquarters. After the war he tried to emigrate and got put in the detention center on Ellis Island."

"Then we can track him, right? Immigration records? Or did he go to prison?"

"Neither. He escaped and disappeared." Peter glanced over and saw her look of disappointment. "Hey, it's a start. You'd be amazed what people can find in old records."

"Oh?"

"One of my aunts is into genealogy," Peter said. "She used to dig up crazy stuff all the time."

"Got any deep, dark family secrets?"

"My grandfather was a carnie during the Depression," Peter replied, grinning.

"Well, if we can't find anything, we'll give your aunt a call," Sara told him solemnly. She hesitated, then continued. "How's Neal doing with all this?" 

"Concerned about his welfare?" Peter replied, amused.

"Just making sure his usual brand of crazy isn't going to endanger the case," she replied.

"He's doing okay. We had a little Come To Jesus about his recent behavior. Robbing your apartment was just one element among many that I decided to put a lid on," he said.

"You keep him on a tight leash," she observed.

"I do what I have to."

"That wasn't an objection. I'm just intrigued. He must be a handful."

"Yeah, he has his moments," Peter admitted.

Neal, to his credit, seemed to accept the further delay in the chase with an even temper.

"It's a lot of research," Peter said, as he put the DVD back in its case. Mozzie was packing up a satchel of some...stuff he clearly didn't want Peter to see; Sara was studying a painting on Neal's easel, head tilted slightly.

"I'm good at research," Neal answered.

"You don't actually like research, though."

"I do like complaining about research," Neal said thoughtfully. "But I don't mind doing the work if it gets us what we want. You should know that. I can be patient, Peter."

"See that you are, then," Peter said, and Neal rolled his eyes and grabbed his gym bag.

It was true, though -- Peter knew Neal could do the work, if sufficiently motivated. So the next day, while Peter plotted and planned and met with Stanzler, pretending to be Neal, he left Neal and Sara to fast-talk their way into the Ellis Island immigration archives.

"How's it going?" Peter asked, when Neal called late that afternoon. "Having fun yet?"

"Yeah, it's just like robbing a bank," Neal said. "Not that I'd know."

"Uh huh."

"Do you have any idea how much paperwork there is in these archives? We're working in the _room_ of 1946. I think I saw my granddad's immigration records."

"Your grandfather came through Ellis Island?"

"Hyperbole, Peter," Neal sighed.

"Getting along with Sara?"

"Yeah, we're keeping each other entertained. How's tutoring?"

"Well, I'm learning," Peter replied. Mozzie yelled _Wrap it up!_ from across the room, and Peter was sure Neal had heard it. "Mozzie wasn't ever a military drill sergeant, was he?"

"My lips are sealed," Neal said. "See you this evening."

"Stay out of trouble," Peter warned him, and hung up.

***

Wednesday, "Neal Caffrey" robbed a house on orders from Andrew Stanzler, and Neal Caffrey spent the entire op with his pulse beating so fast it made him dizzy. He'd seen Peter run much more dangerous ops before, but he knew then that Peter had the training for what he was doing. Mozzie was a good teacher, and so was June, but one night of lock-and-pocket picking could only teach you so much. Neal was a natural and he'd still spent years practicing; Peter didn't even want to be doing what he was doing.

Well, maybe a little. He sounded excited over the wire.

Neal spent the whole day feeling off-kilter, twitchy and out of place. He was perfectly comfortable pretending to be Peter Burke, but he was vastly, deeply uncomfortable with Peter pretending to be him, and the jokes the other agents made about it made his skin crawl. He was glad to dive into the briefing late that afternoon, where everyone was serious and focused on the case.

Even if Diana did snicker knowingly when Peter pointed out that Neal would be accompanying Elizabeth to the event on Saturday, "As my wife's husband." It was reassuring, in fact; if she could find humor in it, she couldn't be a hundred percent disapproving.

As they were filing out of the boardroom, post-briefing, Neal caught Peter by the arm.

"Working late?" he asked in Peter's ear. He saw, in the reflection of the windows, Diana watching them.

"Sure," Peter replied, without looking at him, and kept going. Neal waited until he was gone before turning around.

Below, in the bullpen, agents were gathering information, making calls, filling out paperwork. For a minute Neal allowed himself to imagine how Peter must see it all -- to be in charge of all this, to have that kind of power. It must make him proud. It must be...satisfying. Neal had never worked with more than a handful of partners at one time, and even when he had it had been on equal footing, decisions made by consensus. Mozzie had said once that Neal wasn't a follower, but he wasn't exactly a leader, either. Peter was.

"Hey," Peter said, leaning back in through the conference room door. "You coming or what?"

He kept quiet on the drive to Brooklyn, quiet enough that he caught Peter glancing at him once or twice.

"You okay?" Peter asked finally, as they crossed the bridge.

"Yeah," Neal said. "Yeah, just figuring out a plan of attack for the archives tomorrow. Mozzie's working on a series of shifts to make sure we don't go crazy doing the same thing for eight hours at a time."

"Sara coming?" Peter inquired, his voice carefully bland. Neal rolled his eyes.

"Not until afternoon, she has some deposition to do in the morning." He wondered if there was a tactful way to ask if Peter knew about her family. It had stuck with him, weirdly -- the blithe way she'd told him she was an only child, months ago, and the confession in the archive, just yesterday, that she used to play detective in her missing sister's bedroom. He wanted to ask questions about it, why her sister had run away and how old she'd been, and whether Sara still cherished delusions about ballerinas and cowgirls. Neal had known a lot of throwaways and runaways and street children in his day; he knew the odds. His thief's sense of unrecovered treasure and this weird Peter-inspired urge to solve puzzles warred with his knowledge that it wasn't his business and Sara wouldn't take kindly to him making it his business.

"Neal?" Peter prompted. "You planning on breaking orbit and coming back down anytime soon?"

Neal rubbed his eyes. "Sorry."

"It's fine. What's got you so twisted up?"

"Nothing," Neal said. Peter gave him a look. "Nothing specific," he corrected.

"Feeling a little displaced?" Peter asked.

"Maybe a little," Neal agreed.

"Settle," Peter told him. Neal glanced at him, questioning. "Sit. Breathe. Don't think about it."

He tried -- tried to get lost in the cityscape scrolling past, but he found himself watching landmarks. It'd been a while since he'd tracked the trip to Peter and Elizabeth's house; it was old and familiar now and if he had to he could navigate three different routes back to --

"Neal," Peter said.

"I'm trying," Neal complained.

"Try harder," Peter told him. His voice gentled a little. "For me, okay?"

Neal nodded and looked down at his hands, genuinely trying to get into that place, the clean clear headspace where nothing mattered, but he couldn't. He'd spent all day in Peter's skin and it was hard to let go.

And maybe it wasn't what he needed, anyway.

"Can I ask you for something?" Neal said.

Peter conveyed a wealth of emotion with a single sidelong look -- suspicion of what Neal would want, willingness to help within reason, concern because Neal rarely did ask for anything, not like this. He rarely had to. Peter usually knew what he needed, sometimes better than he did himself. But not this time.

"Wait until we get home?" Peter suggested. "Elizabeth should be there."

"Yeah. Okay," Neal agreed, and felt his shoulders relax a fraction.

"Honey?" Peter called, when they walked into the house. Satchmo scrambled out of the kitchen looking faintly guilty, but there was no answering reply from Elizabeth. "Guess we beat her home. What have you been up to?" he asked Satchmo, crouching to rub his ears. "You want to take him out? I'll put some food on for dinner."

It was so -- domestic, so peaceful, and so very Peter to send him out to clear his head that Neal almost laughed. He didn't know how he'd gotten himself into this situation.

Well, actually, he did, he thought, as Satchmo sniffed the shrubbery and growled at passing cars. A couple of forged bonds and an ill-timed blowjob. Amazing where such simple things could land you.

***

"El texted," Peter called, when he heard Neal and Satchmo come back inside. "She's on her way. She had to stop at the ice sculptor's."

"A party planner's work is never done," Neal called back. Satch bumped through the kitchen door, slurping at his water bowl. Peter emerged to find Neal hanging up Satchmo's leash with exaggerated care.

"You want to wait for her?" Peter asked. Neal turned and tugged him forward gently by his tie, kissing him, one arm around his waist. "Or not," he added, when Neal let him go.

"Man, you really need to be more aware of your surroundings," Neal said with a grin. He held up Peter's cuffs -- picked from the holster in the small of his back, and now Peter knew why he'd been so affectionate a moment before.

"You can't just ask?" Peter sighed. "Of course you can't, where would the 'fun' be in that..."

"You don't think it's fun?" Neal asked, raising an eyebrow. "Not even a little?"

Peter reached for the cuffs, not answering, but Neal pulled them back just slightly. Peter gave him an exasperated look.

"Something to ask you," Neal said, his voice lower now. Peter watched him carefully. Neal let one of the cuffs fall, dangling the other from his thumb.

"Don't you want the full Neal Caffrey experience?" he asked, grinning.

Peter stared at him. "That's what you want?" he asked. He'd been struggling with the shift between being himself and playing at being Neal, but Neal playacted for a living, lied like he breathed. Why would he want to play at being Peter? Unless --

Neal wasn't usually pretending to be someone he knew. Someone he slept with, someone he spent time with. And it made a certain amount of sense, given that Neal seemed to be having some trouble settling down, more than usual.

"Just a suggestion," Neal said lightly, as if it didn't matter, though it was obvious it did. "If you're not into it -- "

"Surprised, that's all," Peter told him. "It's not like you."

"I'm not like me, much, lately," Neal answered, and that was a rare moment of complete honesty, badly wrapped in glib wit.

"I know the feeling," Peter said. "Sure, okay."

"Seriously?"

Peter shrugged. "I don't especially get off on it, but if you want to play that way, I don't mind. This time," he added, putting a firm limit on how often they were going to do this. Because the games weren't the point of the sex -- they were just a part of it, something Neal used to calm himself down, to even himself out.

Neal beamed at him, pleased, and before Peter could react he'd touched the cuff to his left wrist.

Peter startled. It felt like --

"Peter?"

 _\-- in a hood, hard to breathe. Movement -- track the route, figure out where you are, you're going to have to get out of this one yourself. The Bureau doesn't negotiate with hostage takers. Elizabeth, I'm sorry. Breathe, just breathe. Don't let them see you sweat. The hard slam of a chair and the snick of **handcuffs**_ \--

"Stop, Neal, stop -- red," Peter managed, coming back into his own body with a shock and a gasp. Neal froze for a second, the metal still pressed into Peter's wrist, and then a look of horror came over his face.

"Oh my God," he said, pulling the handcuffs back, tossing them away. "Peter, I'm sorry, I didn't think -- "

"It's okay, it's fine," Peter said, but he was breathing hard, his body remembering the hood it had been so difficult to get air through. Worry and fear, a thousand thoughts at once. Elizabeth, the life insurance policy in their safe -- his pension, she'd get his pension too. God, what would happen to Neal? Jones and Diana weren't ready to take over the task force yet. Hughes would give it to some asshole from outside the department. Satchmo was going to miss their morning runs...

"Breathe," Neal said, his voice distant through the second wave of panic that made Peter's ears buzz, his vision go grey around the edges. He stumbled -- possibly Neal was pulling him -- towards the sofa, and all but fell onto it. Neal grasped his neck to force his head between his knees, but that set off another breathless moment and Peter batted it away, harder than he intended. He did lean forward, though, hands clasped behind his head, trying to get just one clean breath into his lungs.

"I'm sorry," Neal kept repeating, while Peter struggled for air. "Peter, I'm sorry -- "

There was a slam of a door, somewhere off to his left, and then Elizabeth's voice, cheerful in the foyer. "Honey? Neal? I -- "

She broke off and Peter could feel her kneeling next to him, could smell her perfume.

"Sweetie, look at me," Elizabeth was saying, from about a million miles away. He turned blindly, felt her hands on his face, cool and real. It helped; his breathing eased. He could see a little more clearly now, could see Elizabeth's worried face, and he tried hard to pull it together for her sake. When she saw his eyes focus on hers, she smiled, but it was a worried smile. He saw her glance briefly over his head at Neal. Peter straightened, slowly, rubbing his face.

"What happened?" Elizabeth asked, softly.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think -- " Neal started again, but Peter silenced him with a lifted hand. He turned and saw Neal, ghost-white, real terror in his wide blue eyes.

"Neal, can you get a glass of water?" Elizabeth asked. Peter felt more than saw Neal stand up and hurry to the kitchen. He leaned his face into Elizabeth's hair.

"Are you okay, sweetie?" she asked. "Say something, okay?"

"I'm all right," Peter mumbled, though he clearly wasn't.

"Was it..." Her hand pressed against his tie, his shirt -- over his heart. His father had died of a heart attack.

"No, no," he managed. "It's -- stupid -- "

Elizabeth leaned back then, giving him a truly, heartily scornful look. He managed a slightly guilty smile.

Neal came back from the kitchen, a glass of water in one hand, and pressed it into Peter's. The cold water was like a shock; he gulped, then slowed when Elizabeth put her hand on the glass and lowered it slightly. Satchmo, whining in fear and confusion, flopped on Peter's feet and began licking his shoe.

"It's my fault," Neal said, seating himself on the coffee table, putting distance between himself and them. Peter saw Elizabeth look at him, a question on her face. "I was just playing around, I put his handcuffs on his wrist..."

Elizabeth frowned in confusion. Neal bowed his head guiltily.

"The kidnapping," Neal said.

Elizabeth turned and pressed a kiss to Peter's temple, stroking his hair back. "You're okay now, though. You're safe."

"I know!" Peter said, more sharply than he meant to. He took another gulp of water. "Sorry. I know." He glanced up at Neal, who still looked like he was in fear for his life. "Maybe no handcuffs, then."

Neal nodded. "No handcuffs," he said, very seriously. There were a few seconds of silence, and then he added, "You _really_ don't get off on submitting, huh?"

Peter laughed, which surprised them as well as himself. He set the glass down on the floor (Satchmo poked a nose into it curiously) and reached out, grasping Neal's wrist, pulling him forward until he sat next to him again. "Come here."

Neal went warily, until Peter grabbed him by the back of his collar and pulled him in hard, holding Neal's face against his shoulder. The mingled smell of Elizabeth's perfume and Neal's aftershave were anchoring, grounding.

"It's fine," he said, as Elizabeth curled up closer to him. "You didn't know. _I_ didn't know."

"Sorry I killed the moment," Neal said. Peter kissed his hair, smiling into it.

"I'm all right," he said, ducking his head to meet Neal's eyes. "See? I'm okay."

"Even when I try to stop screwing up, I screw up," Neal murmured, and Peter felt Elizabeth laugh, shakily.

"I think a little wine," she said, kissing him and standing up. "And some food."

"There are sandwiches!" Peter called after her.

"I got it!" she yelled back.

"Wine and sandwiches," Neal said, as Peter released him. He stood up and offered Peter a hand, hesitantly. "I have to say I think even Mozzie would have trouble pairing with deviled ham."

"I made you egg salad," Peter grumbled.

"What is with you and mayonnaise-based foods?" Neal asked, and Peter slumped into his seat at the table, a little relieved. Neal still looked anxious, but he was covering well, and Peter would really prefer to ignore what had just happened. Elizabeth emerged from the kitchen with a platter of sandwiches in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other; Neal took the wine and set about opening it while Elizabeth went back into the kitchen for plates and glasses. Peter watched her carefully, but she seemed at least less panicked than Neal -- and while he could read Neal like an open book, most of the time, he could read his wife even better. If she were afraid, he'd know, of that he was sure. Not least because, unlike Neal, she'd _tell him._

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, as she handed him a glass of the wine Neal was pouring.

"I really, really don't," Peter answered. Elizabeth smiled and sat down.

"In that case, Neal, have you ever done ice sculpture?" she asked. Neal gave her a confused look. "My ice sculptor says he can't do more than a six foot ice bear, and the Evil Genius employing me wants eight feet."

"Yeah, that's not compensating for anything," Peter answered.

"Never done ice sculpture," Neal said thoughtfully. "I've seen it done. It involves a lot more chainsaw than I'm comfortable with."

They settled into conversation, light and even, almost awkwardly so, but Peter was grateful. At the very least, it felt close to normal, and he thought he could probably use some normal just then.

They were going to have to fix it, though, and tonight -- Neal was still on edge, and this hadn't helped matters. Turning that problem over in his head gave him something to focus on, at least. By the time they were done eating, Neal was on his third glass of wine -- not enough to impair him, but enough that perhaps he'd relax a little, if he were given permission.

"Put a movie on or something," Peter said in an undertone to Elizabeth, as he followed her into the kitchen, carrying the plates. "I'll be back down in a couple of minutes."

"Are you worried about him?" she asked.

"Little bit."

"He's worried about you," El said.

"Yeah, that's what I'm worried about."

She glanced over her shoulder, grinning. "I never thought I'd win sanest-person-in-the-relationship by default."

"I never even thought I was in the running," he told her, and kissed her cheek. In the dining room, Neal was gathering up the wineglasses. He tipped one at Peter questioningly. Peter shook his head, then took the glasses out of Neal's hands and set them on the table.

"Come on," he said, and didn't look back to see if Neal was following as he climbed the stairs. For one thing, he could hear Neal's footsteps; and anyway, they needed to get things clear between them. Hard edges and straight lines. Definition was important, especially now.

He turned when he reached the bedroom door, walking backwards into it, Neal following with a curious, anxious look on his face. Peter stopped him with a hand on his chest in the middle of the floor.

"Knees," he said. Neal blinked at him. "Go on."

Neal looked like he might be about to object, but instead he just toed off his shoes and dropped to his knees, head bowed. Without, apparently, thinking about it, he put his hands behind his back.

Peter left his clothes on him, but he slid Neal's tie out of the collar -- a more complicated process than it should be, Neal and his ridiculous tie clips and collar bars -- and knotted it quickly around his head.

Neal inhaled sharply when the tie went over his eyes, but he didn't speak. Peter crouched.

"Stay here," he said. "We'll be up later."

Neal nodded, mouth pressed into a tight, thin line. He was bowed so far forward that his arms looked twisted, wrists locked behind him; Peter took his elbows gently and pulled them around, spreading Neal's fingers against his thighs. He didn't unbend, the line of his spine tight and tense.

Realization dawned.

"Neal, this isn't a punishment," Peter said quietly. Neal didn't move. "You didn't do anything wrong. Neither of us knew. I'm not angry with you. I'm trying to help."

Neal said something so quietly he couldn't make it out.

"What?"

Silence.

"Neal, answer me," he ordered. Neal's body jerked like he'd been struck.

"I wish it were," he said. It sounded like it cost him a lot to say it. "That would make this easier, that would -- "

Peter put a hand over his mouth, quieting him. He settled onto his knees, facing the other man.

"You've been fighting all day," he said. Neal nodded, just slightly. "And then you tried to get out of it and what happened?"

He took his hand away from Neal's mouth slowly.

"You got hurt," Neal whispered.

"Is there an object lesson in this?" Peter asked drily.

"Trust you."

"Trust me to?"

Neal's eyebrows, above the thin blindfold, drew together. He didn't seem to understand.

"Trust me to show you what to do," Peter said. "Believe me, listen to me."

Another slight nod.

"I'm not into hurting people," Peter continued. "I never have been, you know that. But that's what you're angling for, isn't it? Some kind of physical catharsis?"

Neal's lips twitched.

"What, a little too psychological for you?"

"No, Sir," Neal replied.

Peter rested his hand on Neal's bowed head, thinking.

"Okay, you need to get that I'm not mad at you. You get that, right?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Fine. You still need -- "

"Yes," Neal said, before Peter even finished the question. And then, as an afterthought -- with, at least, a slight smile -- "Sir."

Peter touched Neal's wrists, to show him where his hands were, and then took out Neal's cuff links. He placed one carefully on the back of Neal's right hand, the other on his left. Neal frowned, confused.

"I want those on your hands when I come back," Peter said. "You let them fall, you won't come for a week. We understand each other?"

Neal nodded, carefully.

Peter kissed his forehead. "I'll come back," he said. "Trust me."

***

"Where's Neal?" Elizabeth asked, when Peter came down the stairs alone. She was sitting on the couch, the last of the wine in her glass and a classic film on the television. Peter settled in next to her, loose-limbed, the tension from dinner dissipated.

"On his knees, upstairs," he answered, slinging an arm around her shoulders. "He wanted me to punish him."

"And are you?"

"He didn't do anything wrong. The symbolism's enough," Peter answered. "I'm not leaving him alone up there too long. How long's the movie?"

"I don't know, another forty minutes maybe," she said. "What are you doing?"

Peter shrugged. "I put his cufflinks on his hands, told him not to drop them."

"Look at you all imaginative," she said, kissing his cheek.

"He requires a lot of imagination," Peter said. "Not that you don't," he added, when she elbowed him gently.

"Are you really okay?" she asked.

"I'm not nuts about the unexpected," Peter admitted.

"Yeah, I noticed."

"I'll be fine. We'll work it out."

"Okay," she said, and turned her attention back to the movie. After a few minutes, she glanced back at him again. "Is this weird?"

"Little bit," he said. "You know, when I told you I was getting Neal out of prison, this wasn't where I anticipated our lives going."

"I'd be worried if it had been."

"Do you mind it?" he asked, concerned. She stared at him.

"No, of course not. He needs us, and -- well, it's not like I don't get anything out of it," she said. "Besides, you bring me flowers more often now."

"I -- !" Peter looked at her, offended. She giggled. "Why am _I_ being punished? I didn't want to be punished!"

"Sweetie." She kissed him, then settled back down against his chest. "I'm glad you're okay. Mostly."

He tightened his arm a little.

"If I weren't, I'd say so," he assured her. "Promise."

***

Neal was good at judging time without a clock, but the shock of blindness and of Peter's willingness to _go there_ , to punish him when he asked for it, put him off his game for a while. He settled down and started counting his heartbeats, but he had no idea how long that took. The urge to fidget was strong, at first. After a while, the cramping and pins-and-needles tingling in his legs made it nearly impossible to sit still.

He'd survived worse, though, working on heists, hiding out, running. He could do this. That was the point, after all, to feel pain and make it through. On the other side, he wouldn't have to feel guilty for hurting Peter anymore, however inadvertent. On the other side, he could be sure that Peter wouldn't be angry with him, because he'd done his penance. Peter and Elizabeth would come and get him, they always did, they never forgot him. Neal mattered to them. They wouldn't forget.

His knees ached, and the stretched muscles of his calves. His feet were cramped, the balls of his feet throbbing. His arms, too, with the tension of not-moving to protect the precious cufflinks sitting on the backs of his hands. The pain would creep up into his hips next, the muscles there straining to hold him in balance. He tried to be in the moment, like Mozzie was always telling him, manage the pain by accepting it, but Mozzie had a lot more practice with all that philosophical stuff than Neal did, and accepting the pain didn't do anything except make him more aware of it.

The cuff links had been cold when Peter put them on his hands but they were warm now, and sweat was trickling down Neal's neck. It had to have been at least twenty minutes.

Peter and Elizabeth wouldn't forget. Peter wouldn't make Neal do more than he could endure. He knew Neal better than anyone.

Neal's left arm twitched, the bicep spasming. The cuff link tilted, rocked back and forth, but didn't fall. Neal hissed through his teeth, flexing the muscle as best he could. He was sure there were monks or priests or something who did this for hours on end.

Maybe it had been hours. Elizabeth had said something about a movie, hadn't she? If Peter had fallen asleep --

No. Peter wouldn't risk that.

His legs were numb, now, which was something of a relief. A flood of endorphins, like a runner's high, made him waver briefly and almost topple onto his side, but he shook his head and kept upright. The cuff links were hot against his skin.

Peter must have made noise on the stairs, but if he had, Neal hadn't heard it over his own breathing. It wasn't until Peter's voice said, "Neal?" that Neal realised he was in the room. No -- the doorway. He didn't dare raise his head; the room was spinning even behind the blindfold.

"I didn't drop them," Neal managed.

"I'm going to pick them up," Peter said, and then there was heat against his hands, Peter's body heat, Peter's fingers against his skin as he collected the cuff links. Neal didn't move. Peter's hands came back to his skin, picking up his right wrist, moving his hand aside; he did the same with his left, then touched Neal's chin to tip his head up. Neal gave a startled cry and almost fell over, but Peter's arm caught him.

"Easy, okay," Peter murmured in his ear, as Neal's numb fingers scrambled for purchase in his shirt. His feet prickled and stung as Peter lifted him, arm around his chest, until Neal was standing unsteadily. The makeshift blindfold was lifted off his eyes (that tie would need ironing, a small part of his mind supplied) and Neal blinked in the dim light of the bedroom. Elizabeth was sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling at him.

"I didn't drop them," Neal repeated.

"I know," Peter said softly, studying his face, tipping his head this way and that. "You did great, Neal. You feel okay?"

"My legs are killing me," Neal moaned, leaning further into Peter's shoulder.

"That's what you wanted, isn't it?" Peter asked, helping him to the bed. Neal collapsed sideways, and Elizabeth let out a surprised laugh as his head landed in her lap.

"Clean slate now," Neal mumbled into her thigh. Her fingers stroked his hair. It felt like the best thing ever, better than stealing, better than orgasm.

"That's right," Peter said. "Clean slate. And I think," he said slowly, "we stick with what we know works, huh? You feel better now?"

Neal nodded. The tingling in his legs and the cramps through his arms were fading, and he drew his legs up, which Peter took as an invitation to sit down.

"Sometimes you need to know where we stand, you and me," Peter said slowly, ruminatively. "But this, here, isn't about that. You get that, right? I'm just trying to help you."

"I know," Neal mumbled. "Don't stop," he added to Elizabeth, who laughed and petted his head.

"Babe, we're just getting started," she said.

***

Peter awoke before dawn; the clock on Elizabeth's nightstand read 3:48, which was a stupid time to be awake. At first he thought Neal might have had another nightmare, but he didn't get them so often now as he used to, and when Peter turned his head Neal was snoring softly into the pillow, naked, the blankets kicked back over Elizabeth. She was fine too, curled up on her side, face peaceful. He couldn't hear any noises that might have woken him.

He slid off the bed cautiously, managing not to wake them as he pulled some pants on and went downstairs to get a drink. At the bottom of the stairs he caught a gleam of metal in the light from the street through the windows: his cuffs, lying on the floor where Neal had thrown them. He bent and picked them up -- no twinge of memory, no panic. They were just his cuffs, good heavy FBI-issue steel. He looked down at them lying on his palm.

After a minute, he went to his jacket, hanging by the door, and dug out the cuff key. He poured himself a glass of water in the kitchen, sat down at the dining room table, and put the key down next to the glass, within easy reach of his right hand. He picked up the cuffs, snapping one of them open, and carefully brought the top of it down across his left wrist.

Cold pressure; a moment of intense discomfort, like remembering he had some unpleasant chore to perform, but no panic. He brought the other half of the ring around and held it just shy of the latching mechanism. Still nothing. With a deep breath, he shot the latch home, tightening the metal around his wrist, and immediately picked up the key.

And yeah, he did remember then, remembered the fear and panic and the need to stay calm. Remembered how hard it was to breathe and how the little basement room had smelled like mold and cheap fabric. But it wasn't immediate, it didn't drop in front of his eyes like it had earlier.

He kept the cuff around his wrist for a count of twenty. By the time he reached fifteen, the fear had faded. At twenty, he unlocked the cuff and swapped hands -- put the key within reach of his left hand, pressed the metal ring to his right wrist. He repeated the process, working through the discomfort. It didn't feel as bad this time, or maybe he was just prepared for it. When he made it to twenty without panic, he reached out for the glass of water, cuff still around his wrist, picked it up and took a sip. The clank of the metal on the glass didn't bother him, or the soft creak of the chain between the rings.

"Okay," he said softly, unlocking it. The click of the latch releasing the cuffs seemed unusually loud, but that was all. "Okay. Got you," he added triumphantly, to the handcuffs, and folded them together. He gathered up the key, tucked cuffs and key into his coat pocket, and put the water glass in the sink before heading back upstairs.

"Hon?" Elizabeth asked sleepily, as he crawled back into bed. "Whr'd you go?"

"Glass of water," he whispered.

"Neal?"

"Out cold. I just got thirsty," Peter promised, pulling her body up against his, enjoying the weight of her in his arms. "Sleep, everything's fine."

She made a soft noise of satisfaction and relaxed against his body, breathing evening out. Peter closed his eyes.

***

The rest of the week was...better, even if they were taken up with plans for the event on Saturday night. Peter spent the time shoring up his security measures as much as he could, and clearing away some old paperwork in the meantime; Neal spent his days in the immigration archives with Mozzie and sometimes Sara, when she could get away, looking for the elusive traces Gerhardt Wagner must have left.

Saturday afternoon, while they were doing final prep for the event, Neal slouched into Peter's office, casting a sly grin at Peter's outfit. "Nice. Very me."

"Yeah, I thought so," Peter answered, grinning back. "You ready to pretend to be Special Agent Burke again?"

"Almost," Neal said. "Little more important to be 'husband' tonight though, I think."

"I think you'll manage," Peter drawled. Neal was playing-at-him: his body movements and expressions and even the tone of his voice, somehow, was more Peter than Neal. It should have been creepier, probably, but it looked so natural. That was one of Neal's talents, making the strange seem normal.

"I want something from you," Neal said. Peter cocked his head. "I don't wear a wedding ring."

Peter stared at him. "You want my ring?"

"Just for the night," Neal said calmly. Okay, now it was a little creepy.

"Are you _insane?_ " Peter asked.

"I need a ring. You can't have one," Neal said, holding out his hand.

Peter met his eyes, but Neal wasn't joking; his stare was even. Though there was, he thought, a hint of entreaty in it. Peter scowled down at his left hand, sliding the ring off his finger. He put it in Neal's hand, but didn't let go of it.

"If you damage, lose, or make off with my wedding ring -- "

"Relax," Neal said, voice low. "I get it. Not mine."

Peter released it and Neal slid it onto his finger, frowning at the slightly loose fit. Peter rubbed the soft, pale skin where the ring normally sat, uncomfortable without it. He caught Neal watching him, and was surprised by the quickly-hidden bitterness in his face.

"Neal -- "

"Ah!" Neal held up a hand. "Agent Burke, to you."

Fine. Neal wanted to play it that way, they could deal with this later. "Oh, excuse me, _Special_ Agent Burke," he replied.

"Much better," Neal said, a smile flitting across his lips. "So, you want to go catch some bad guys?"

***

Neal found himself slightly at loose ends, once Peter took Stanzler down. The op, of course, had been exciting, an adrenaline rush; playing Elizabeth's husband, being permitted to touch affectionately in public, had been an added twist of pleasure, and watching Peter wrestle Stanzler to the ground effortlessly had certainly been invigorating.

But he'd given Peter's ring to Elizabeth to give back to him and now here he was, Neal Caffrey again. The party was over, and it was time to stop playing pretend -- pretend that he was married, pretend that he had Peter's life. Mozzie was often baffled by Neal's envy of the white picket fence, but Neal saw no point in pretending he didn't want it. He liked the look of the plain gold band on his finger, even if it wasn't his and wouldn't ever be, not from Peter or Elizabeth.

He was too keyed up to go home, and anyway Mozzie and Sara would still be at the archives until they closed at ten -- plenty of time to drop in and do a little work. It'd distract him -- from giving up the ring, from the way Peter looked at Elizabeth when she gave it back, from the slight weight of Peter's hand as he'd picked his wallet back out of Neal's pocket (and Jesus Christ, wasn't that a turn-on, even if it hadn't been a perfect snatch). Besides, the charm offensive he was waging on Sara would benefit from his showing up to help out. Better still, he could bring her some snacks from the party. Mozzie would roll his eyes, but Mozzie wasn't the one being run to ground over the stupid Raphael.

Sara was pretty and smart and stimulating. It wasn't like it was a chore, charming her. In her own way she was as difficult to woo as Kate, and Neal did love a challenge.

"How was your night?" she asked, as she opened the package of nibbles Neal had carefully sculpted to look like a mediocre rendition of a swan.

"Oh...the usual," he said, because there wasn't really anything else to say about it.

"Yeah? What'd you get me? Oh -- " she beamed at him and brushed hair out of her eyes and Neal thought maybe, finally, he'd unlocked her flirty side, " -- I love gourmet finger food."

Neal couldn't have planned the lights going out at a better moment than that; couldn't have choreographed her reaching across his thighs for a lantern, or the way she leaned into him as he straightened. He couldn't have planned it, but he didn't have to. There it was: that gorgeous, _amazing_ moment when everything came together.

Neal hovered, patient and only a little uncertain, until Sara leaned in -- leaned up -- and Neal cupped her face in his hands and kissed her.

After a few breathless seconds he pressed in, pushing his advantage for as long as this would last, turning, cradling her head, propping her up on the narrow archive ledge behind them. He felt her fingers at his throat, working his tie loose; he took the hint and tugged at her shirt, a little careless, trying to get it down around her shoulders.

Neal hitched his hips against her, shameless, pressing her against the wall. She laughed and kept kissing him. This was so much _simpler_ than anything he'd had in so long, and even when the lights came up again he didn't want to stop, wouldn't accept her apology. (What did she have to be sorry for, anyway?)

He was beginning to think they might really end up having sex, right here in the immigration archives. Which would be great, that would be perfect, with her thighs around his hips and the warm air eddying around --

"Sara? I got some -- "

Neal looked up and saw Mozzie staring at them. He stared back stupidly, not even thinking about gathering his wits.

"Uh. Hi, Neal," Mozzie said. Sara gave him the gentlest of shoves and Neal backed away, pulling his shirt up over his shoulders again. Mozzie did a sort of stiff quarter-turn that Neal recognized from the last time Mozzie had walked in on him with Kate, years before. It had only happened the once; Mozzie learned to knock very quickly.

"What've you got?" Sara asked, trying to put her clothes back in some state of order. Neal resisted the urge to help her, because that couldn't go anywhere good.

"The um...urgency transcends the awkwardness," Mozzie said, coming forward. Neal fought down a laugh and tried to make sure the table was between them. The last thing he wanted to inflict on Mozzie at the moment was an erection.

It didn't last long, anyway, once Mozzie passed over the file on Gerhardt Wagner, and then the laptop with his obituary. The obituary with the name _Alexandra Hunter_ in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References:  
> Demuth's **[Figure Five In Gold](http://www.metmuseum.org/toah/works-of-art/49.59.1)**. Neal's Chrysler Building painting reminded me of it.  
>  "My grandfather was a carnie during the Depression" is an inside reference to **[Clayton Jones](http://timdekay-daily.livejournal.com/tag/tv%3A%20carnivale)** , Tim DeKay's character on Carnivale.


	20. Chapter 20

Sunday morning, Elizabeth came downstairs to find Peter and Neal in a heated debate about pastry.

"It's a doughnut," Neal was saying. "One doughnut's not going to kill you."

"You have the metabolism of a nineteen-year-old," Peter answered. "A doughnut's not going to kill _you_. Besides, the whole cops-and-doughnuts thing gets old fast. I want a bagel."

"One doughnut, Peter! Enjoy life!"

"I'd like to enjoy life when I'm seventy, so I'll have a bagel, thank you."

"There's probably more fat in the cream cheese than in this delicious doughnut."

"Problem solved," Elizabeth announced, reaching out to take the pastry Neal was waving at Peter. "Thank you for bringing us breakfast," she added to Neal, giving him a kiss on the cheek and then biting into the doughnut. Peter began spreading cream cheese on a bagel. "Any particular occasion?"

"Business, believe it or not," Neal replied, taking another doughnut out of the bakery bag. "First, we found Gerhardt Wagner. Well, Mozzie did. Turns out he's dead."

"Murdered?" Peter asked, licking cream cheese off his lip. Sometimes Elizabeth still couldn't get over how adorable Peter could be without noticing it.

"Not as far as we can tell." Neal looked awkward for a minute. "He changed his name to Michael Hunter when he immigrated."

Peter gave him a sharp look.

"Yeah," Neal said. "Apparently he was Alex's grandfather."

"Does Alex know you found this?" Peter asked, all business now. Elizabeth nibbled at her doughnut and watched them.

"Not yet. I tried to call her, but she's not answering. And I wanted to talk to you first, anyway. Obviously she knows more about all of this than she's letting on. She might have known from the start that the music box had that code in it." Neal looked down. "Might've been playing us. If she knew she couldn't decode it herself, she could have passed it off to us."

"Making us her bird-dogs. Can't fault her for smarts," Peter said. Neal nodded; Elizabeth studied him.

"But that's not all, is it?" she asked. Neal glanced up at her. So did Peter.

"That's all about Gerhardt Wagner," Neal said. "Um. It was a weird evening."

"You mean it got weirder after you spent the night posing as me?" Peter asked.

"Yeah, actually."

"Were there aliens?" Elizabeth asked with a grin. Neal gave her a smile.

"No aliens. Unless Mozzie's not telling me something."

"So?" Peter spread his hands. Neal sat back.

"I kinda kissed Sara last night," he said. Elizabeth glanced at Peter, who had one eyebrow raised. "Okay, maybe more than kissed. Less than sex, though."

"You get interrupted?" Peter asked, and Elizabeth would have swatted him for that, because Peter could be kind of an ass to Neal sometimes, except Neal's expression told her that the shot had hit home.

"Mozzie," Neal said.

"Wow," Elizabeth put in. "Awkward."

"Not nearly as awkward as..." Neal spread his hands, indicating them both. Elizabeth looked at Peter; he had a complicated expression on his face, somewhere between jealousy and vindication. "I thought, well, okay, I'll try this honesty thing. So. I've never really _understood_ the whole concept of bases, but I'm pretty sure I got to at least second base. Or she did. I don't know how that metaphor works," he added, narrowing his eyes.

"We..." Peter glanced at Elizabeth. "I think we agreed it wasn't really fair to you to expect fidelity. Not in this situation."

Neal nodded, but he looked almost hurt.

"If you need to...stop..." Peter's lips pressed together as he tried to figure out how to say it. Elizabeth could have probably said it for him, but it was more fun watching him work it out for himself. "If you need to back off to give this thing with Sara a chance, that'd be understandable."

"That wasn't where I was aiming," Neal said. Elizabeth could hear the flat, emotionless note in his voice.

"Lying to your partners doesn't work," she said softly. "And you can't tell Sara about us. You know that. Too many people know already."

"She's not my partner," Neal retorted. " _You're_ my partner," he added to Peter. "I don't want to back off, I don't want to just be friends or whatever, that's crap. I just want to know you're okay with it."

"And if things get serious?" Peter asked.

"We kissed. Once." Neal looked angrier now. "I didn't propose marriage to her. Look, if you don't want me to see her -- "

"That's not what I said," Peter replied. Elizabeth put a hand between the two men, who were glaring at each other, and waved it gently. Both of them looked at her, still glaring, but she'd dealt with much crankier people than Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey in the last few years.

"Nobody's saying you have to back off," she said to Neal, who dropped his eyes. "And we're not making truth a condition of your relationship with someone else. We just want to make sure you don't hurt Sara, and that you don't get hurt."

"Okay." Neal took a breath. "So...?"

"It's fine," Peter said, obviously attempting to relax as well. "This is your relationship. You handle it however you need to and we'll back you."

"You won't say no, right?" Neal asked, going for lighthearted. She wasn't cruel enough to tell him he was missing by a mile.

"That's right," Peter said, more seriously.

"Okay," Neal repeated. "I'm gonna...go think about things. Or not think about things."

"Monday we have that bust first thing, we'll deal with Wagner when we get back afterward," Peter reminded him.

"Fauxlexes, right," Neal said. "Thank you," he added, standing and kissing Elizabeth on the forehead. Peter caught his wrist as he passed and pulled him in, until Neal took the hint and kissed him, as well.

"Be good," Peter told him.

"Trying," Neal murmured, and gathered up his hat, closing the kitchen door gently behind him as he left. They sat there in silence for a moment, Peter picking apart one end of his bagel, until Elizabeth slid over into his lap, resting her head on his shoulder.

"You okay?" she asked, as he secured her there with one arm. "With this, I mean?"

"Not even close," Peter answered. "But -- I don't have the right to demand anything of him, not like that. Sara could be really good for him. So I'm just going to have to deal with it. My problem, not his."

"Good man," she said, kissing him.

"Do my best," he replied.

***

Of course it wasn't that easy. With Peter, it was never that easy.

Neal honestly didn't know why he bothered sometimes. He adored El and he needed Peter in a way that was hard to define, but something about Neal's apartment turned Peter into a tactless asshole. It was like every time Peter came over, he was actively trying to remind Neal why he should hate the man who chased him down and arrested him, instead of wanting to let Peter tie him up and fuck him.

Neal had been working on his _Demuth's Chrysler_ painting for a week or two when Peter saw it for the first time, and instead of saying something polite like "nice painting" or something noncommittal like "that's interesting" he had to tweak Neal about Sara.

"Painting it for your girlfriend?" he asked, while Mozzie fiddled with the antenna and threw out suggestions for what could be on the missing U-boat.

"Are you nine?" Neal replied, easily enough. Peter gave him a bland look and a shrug, which was somehow more infuriating than anything he could have actually said.

"Well, if you're not going to woo her with the Raphael..." he added, and that was really the breaking point. It shouldn't have been, Neal used to be more patient, but it was.

"Moz, you said that thing takes some time to warm up?" Neal asked. Mozzie, who caught the note of annoyance in his voice, glanced back at him and nodded. "We'll keep an eye on it. Why don't you go say hi to June?"

Mozzie narrowed his eyes. "You'll call me if anything happens?"

"Yes, Moz, I will call you if anything happens," Neal assured him.

"Even the tiniest blip?"

"The littlest bleep will be my watchword," Neal said, propelling Mozzie towards the doorway.

"Don't go hunting without me!" Moz called, as the door closed behind him. Peter was watching Neal, head cocked.

"Okay, you and I need to talk about this," Neal said, coming back to the table. "Because you don't get to say it's fine if I see other people and then constantly give me crap about Sara."

"I don't see how the two are related," Peter said, crossing his arms.

"You don't -- Peter, you're not stupid, don't pretend to be," Neal said. "You're playing games with me, which is beneath you, and not something I thought I'd get from you."

Peter shook his head, more serious now. "I'm not playing games. I think it's good. I'm trying to be okay with it."

That made Neal pause. "So you're not okay with it."

"I didn't say that."

"For _God's sake_ ," Neal shouted. "Will you make up your mind? It's hard enough to make up my own without having to worry about yours too."

"Make up my mind about what, about Sara?" Peter asked, standing slowly, leaning on a chair. "I think she's good for you. I think you should take a shot, see if it works. Mind made up enough for you?"

"But you're not okay with it, you keep taunting me about her in front of my friends, the people I work with, like it's okay for them to do it too," Neal said. "You making fun of something I'm trying to do, in front of my best friend? Mozzie's already against practically every person I'm interested in, I don't need you helping him take digs at her."

"Mozzie doesn't like Sara?"

"That's so far beside the point it's in another state, Peter!"

"Well, what do you want from me? This is what people do, what friends do. They poke a little fun. It shows they're okay with what you're doing."

"But that isn't what you're doing, is it?" Neal asked. "One minute you're telling me not to break your heart, the next you're shoving me at Sara. So forgive me for being a little angry, Peter, but I'm getting a few mixed messages here."

"There's a difference between betraying trust and -- " Peter rubbed his hands through his hair. "I don't want you back out there, living wild, breaking the law. The nights you spend with us, yes, those are valuable to me, to us, but we could give those up if we knew you were safe, if we knew you were happy. You betray that -- _that_ hurts me. And Elizabeth."

"So what do you want? No, I want to know," Neal said, as Peter turned away in frustration. Peter was silent for a while, back tense, shoulders stiff. Finally he turned around again.

"I want you to get your parole," he said. "I want you to get your parole and -- stay here, stay with the FBI, work with me, do good things in the world. But I also want you to find...that place, I can see it in you, where you have just a little bit of peace. Do you get it?" Peter asked, and the intensity of his voice knocked Neal silent. "I want the white picket fence for you, Neal, I swear to God I do."

"Suburban house, two and a half kids?" Neal asked, disdainfully. "You think guys like me get that, Peter? Because the last two years have taught me a little differently."

"Neal -- " Peter rubbed his head in frustration. "I think guys like you _were_ don't get that. You don't have to be who you were. You've seen -- you can see what El and I have. You can be good and be happy, really happy. I want you to be good, Neal. Yeah, with a home and someone who loves you, and a job you're good at that keeps you on this side of the law. I want someday for you to find a peace El and I don't have to give you. For yourself. If only because this, what we have, it's never going to be easy. Especially for you."

"What if this is what I want?" Neal asked. "This. Forever. What if this is my white picket fence, Peter? You going to push me out of it?"

Peter shook his head. "If your shot at Fowler taught me anything, it's that I can't push you out. I've figured it out, okay? You matter in ways that are positively terrifying to me. So yeah, you want this? You got it. But maybe you should want something more. Maybe this thing with Sara only proves it." He drew a breath and said, "I know you want kids."

Neal stared at him.

"Come on, I see the way you look when there are kids around. You're never gonna have that with us. Hell, you're never going to be able to _tell anyone_ about us. There's so much you won't have, if this is what you choose, even after you get parole. I don't want you to give up the life you could have and hate us for it later."

"So I should give you up instead?" Neal asked. "This is my decision, Peter, and there are sacrifices either way. You have to let me make it. Don't make it for me and then shove me through it."

Peter bowed his head, one hand propped on the chair.

"What do you want, Peter?" Neal asked.

"I want what's -- "

"Oh, fuck what's best for me," Neal interrupted. "I'll say what that is, because I'm me. What do you want? Be selfish. Be selfish just for long enough to tell me. Promise I won't tell anyone," he added, trying to lighten the mood a little bit. Peter gave him a skeptical, mildly annoyed look. Neal moved closer, until they were almost touching.

"What do you want, Peter?" he asked again, quieter now.

"I want you," Peter said. "And I don't want to share you. I don't want Sara or Alex or anyone else in your bed. I want you for me and El. But that's not okay, Neal. You have to see that's not okay."

"It doesn't have to be," Neal shrugged. "If it's what you want, it's what you want."

"Spoken like a true criminal," Peter said bitterly. "I don't get to cater to my id, and you don't get to bow to it either. So yeah, part of me wants that. But the better part of me wants what will keep you safe and happy, and that's not some vow to me and El. You might be the only one who can say what's best for you, but you gotta figure that out first and right now you're not doing a very good job of it. Let me help you while I can."

"And pushing me at Sara, that's helping me?"

"Pushing you to explore your options. Yes, it is," Peter said.

"Do you want me to stop coming home with you? You want us to stop?"

"Not unless you want to. But if you want to, when that time comes -- yes, we will stop, and we will be friends, and it'll be good, Neal. I swear, it will."

"Trust you, huh?" Neal asked.

"Something like that," Peter agreed.

"Then who else am I supposed to trust, Peter? What's the criteria for that, exactly?"

Peter held his stare, calm now. "That's the question, isn't it?"

There was a soft knock at the door.

"If you two are done with your lover's spat, I need to check some calibrations," Mozzie announced. Peter raised one hand to his face as Neal stepped backwards, putting some distance between them. Mozzie seated himself and glanced up at them as he twiddled dials and knobs on the device. "Or, if you're not done, by all means, don't mind me."

"He used to make popcorn when Kate and I fought," Neal said.

"I love a quarrel," Mozzie proclaimed.

"I think we're done here, because I'm not performing for you," Peter told Mozzie. He glanced at Neal. "We'll work it out, all right?"

Neal nodded. "Are we okay?"

"For now. We'll talk more."

"Lay off Sara," Neal warned. Peter nodded. "Okay."

They probably wouldn't have let it drop -- Peter was stubborn and Neal knew himself to be persistent when he thought he was right -- except that Neal called Alex to see if she could help them find the U-boat.

And Vincent Adler answered.

***

Peter was well aware that he was meeting Adler for the first time in the worst possible circumstances. Still, he wasn't thinking about the danger, about giving up his gun or unlocking Neal's anklet or the weapons pointed at him. When he saw Adler face to face -- him in the back seat of a limo, Adler turned from the front seat to smile nastily at both of them -- he thought, _So this is the man._

He hadn't realized until then that he'd been in unconscious competition with Adler. This was the man: the last man Neal had submitted to in any real way, the last man to get the best of Neal Caffrey. The man who'd made him who he was, in Neal's own words.

Peter had never wanted so badly to kill someone in his life. For his crimes and what he'd done to Neal -- for Kate's death and the two years of torment Neal had lived in -- but also because Adler owned part of Neal and Peter didn't want anyone else owning that part but him.

And Adler dominated them both. Effortlessly. Which just made Peter that much more determined.

When he woke from the drugs, it was to a stinging slap across the face, and the vision of Alex looking down at him and smiling like she'd enjoyed the slap a little more than strictly necessary. Peter grunted and pushed himself up on his elbows.

"Thank you," he managed.

"My pleasure," she replied, taking one of his hands to pull him up to sitting. She gestured at Neal, propped against one wall like a rag doll. "Neal's still out."

"I'm going to strangle someone," Peter announced, his usual tact perhaps still not quite restored. "I haven't decided who yet."

"You could start with Vincent Adler and I wouldn't mind," Alex told him.

"Alphabetically, he does come first," Peter agreed. He rubbed his head, as if that would stimulate his brain to work faster, and then glanced sidelong at her. "You okay?"

"Not nuts about having been grabbed, drugged, and left unconscious in a limo with three strange men," Alex said drily. "But I'm fine. Did they whack the two of you on the head?"

"No," Peter replied. "They grabbed Neal, got to me through him. It was all very...civilized."

"Yeah, that's Vincent. Very civilized. Right up until he threatens to kill you," Alex agreed.

"That's right. You've tangled with him before."

"Oh, Neal told you that, did he?" she asked, no real annoyance in her voice. "Yeah, we went a round. Scared the shit out of me, I backed off. Don't know how Neal spent five months with snake-eyes. He's dead inside, you know."

"Who, Adler?"

"Yeah. I don't even believe in souls, but if they do exist he's missing one."

"I got that impression," Peter agreed. He pushed himself to his feet and began to pace, trying to get the blood flowing again. Alex stayed on the bed, watching him, occasionally glancing at Neal.

"Can I ask you something?" she said, eventually.

"You can ask," he offered.

"Gee, thanks." She shifted a little, frowning. "You and Neal."

"Yes?"

"Why are you doing all this for him? You could have arrested me back when we took down Russel Smith."

"Oswald," Peter corrected. "We were taking down George Oswald. Russel Smith was just in the way."

"Potayto, potahto," Alex said with a small smile.

"And we weren't after you."

"And I'm a friend of Neal's," she added. "We study our enemies, Agent Burke. I know the risks you've taken for Neal. You're here now. So. Why? What's in it for you?"

"That's the problem with you cons," Peter told her. "You think there's got to be an angle to everything."

"Oooh, the moral high ground! Kind of hot, in a weird, Catholic way," she replied. Peter rolled his eyes. "Come on. Why do this?"

Peter snorted. "Kate Moreau asked me that, once."

"Can't escape Kate," Alex murmured. She tossed her hair back, smiling at him. "And?"

"And I'll tell you what I told her," Peter said. "Neal is good."

"Oh, come on -- "

"He is. He's good _at this_ , but he also wants to be good. And he's smart. Smarter than I am, smarter than anyone I've ever met. And I'm tired of watching him get jerked around."

She bowed her head a little, hair falling across her face, and Peter studied her.

"Let me ask you something back," he said. Alex looked up again. "You know anything about Neal's past? His childhood?"

"No," she said. "That's not the kind of thing you share. Well. Not the kind of thing we share."

"You don't know anything about his parents?"

"Why, do you?" she asked.

"Some."

The expected question didn't come, which was a relief but also a puzzlement.

"Aren't you curious?" he asked.

"If I've learned anything from Neal, it's that some things are better left buried," she said.

"I don't agree with that."

"Well, of course not. You're a Fed," she pointed out.

Peter was about to reply when Neal shifted and groaned; Alex slipped from the bed to the floor, kneeling next to him. Neal opened his eyes and gave Alex a loopy half-smile.

"Alex," he slurred, sounding satisfied. "I was looking for you."

She glanced over her shoulder at Peter. "Should I?"

"I think it'll help," Peter said. Alex gave Neal a ringing slap, putting a lot of shoulder into it. And Neal, of course, said _Thank you_ too.

Adler interrupted them before they could talk much more; Neal was still slightly unsteady on his feet as they were led out of the little makeshift cell, into the warehouse that held their holy grail: the German submarine, U-869, formerly resting off the coast of North America. It was mammoth, seemingly almost too big for the room that held it, towering over them as they walked.

Neal and Alex had risked their lives and freedom, more than once, for a piece of this. Kate had died for it, and probably others. Vincent Adler had scoured the world for it, played games with the lives of innocent people for it, killed for it; his father and Alex's grandfather had both hunted it their whole lives. Inside it was a fantastic unknown treasure, the stuff of legend.

He'd be lying if he said he didn't feel a shiver of excitement. Neal looked like he was feeling a full-body tremor -- not so much in the way he moved, but in the ways he didn't move, He didn't look directly at the U-boat, or make much eye contact. Neal's hatred, too, was palpable, but he was keeping it under control. That, Peter thought with a little ounce of pride, was his training showing through. A year ago Neal would never have managed to stay so calm in the face of his most hated enemy.

And they did have a job to do -- and Neal was nothing if not a professional, when he was on the job.

***

Sara wasn't sure what she'd been expecting when she knocked on Neal's door for their lunch date. Last time, he'd come to the door half-naked. A girl could dream.

Instead she got Mozzie, a lecture on why it was a bad idea to date con men, and a scolding for tardiness.

Not that Mozzie wasn't voicing some of the thoughts that were running through her own head. Neal would never be able to be honest with her, not about some things, and while she knew it was possible to manage him (Peter did, after all) she didn't think it was either a walk in the park or a long-term boon for one's sanity.

On the other hand, she liked Neal, and Sara was not the kind of woman who avoided misadventure. Which was just as well, because soon she found herself hurrying out of the mansion Neal lived in, Mozzie at her elbow with the antenna in his hands, eyes scanning the street for the FBI surveillance van Diana said was coming to pick them up.

"I warn you now," Mozzie told her, "I may act slightly crazy when we get there."

"You mean you're not currently at slightly crazy?" she asked, genuinely a little worried. "I'd hate to see your definition of psychotic."

"I get anxious when my friends are in danger," Mozzie said. "And I really hate Feds."

"Peter's a Fed."

Mozzie waved this off, almost dropping the antenna in the process. "The exception that proves the rule. Besides, my hate is philosophical."

"Of course it is," Sara murmured to herself, as the van pulled up and Mozzie started haggling over whether or not he was getting in. Admittedly, Agent Barrigan didn't seem to have much patience for Mozzie, but then Sara could understand the sentiment.

***

Neal would never, in a million years, admit to anyone that when they pulled the front off the first crate and found a van Dyck inside, he got a little hard.

It was only natural, he figured. Adrenaline was pumping through him from nearly getting blown up, and he was in a dark treasure-trove of a sub with Peter all sweaty and warm nearby, and there was van Dyck's lost _Self-Portrait As A Boy_ staring up at him. There were rubies and pearls in another crate; Peter uncovered a Romantic pastoral scene and then Neal opened a box full of Rembrandt sketches. Who _wouldn't_ get a little turned on?

This was what he lived for. Art, yes, but also the challenge: trapped in a Nazi submarine full of priceless gold and high explosives, how the hell was he going to get Peter and Alex out of here alive?

Alex, of course, had wits enough to help out, staging a diversion and giving Neal an opportunity to palm the signal beacon. It was a long shot, getting it up and running before the drug Adler was going to give them would take effect, but in the car they got lucky: the guards shoved them inside, told them to drink up, and then leaned back out to have a conversation with Adler.

And the limo had a DVD player.

"Be there," Neal ordered, pointing to the doorway, and Peter obediently shifted, his broad back blocking most of the door. Neal reached up into the slot behind the little television screen, stripped a wire with his teeth, and prayed he understood wartime-era electricians well enough to jump the thing into life. Still praying, he tucked it inside the cavity where the screen would normally rest when not in use.

He was just settling back when Peter grunted and twisted; one of the guards had shoved him back into his seat, and a gun was pointed into the limo.

"Drink," Adler ordered, climbing into the front seat. The three of them exchanged looks, lifting their glasses.

" _Salut,_ " Neal murmured, as he downed the bitter concoction.

" _Et au revoir_ ," Alex said in response.

"Seriously?" Peter asked. "Now is the time for romanticism?"

Neal tried to reply, but the drugs were already working -- the dizzy, drunken light-headedness hit him fast. He barely managed a wink at Peter as he slipped into unconsciousness.

***

**Interlude: Shell Shock**

Peter has a little ritual. Elizabeth doesn't know from personal experience when it started, but she's not stupid.

He'll wake up in the night and be gone for ten or fifteen minutes, and if she wakes when he leaves the bed, she can hear him downstairs, moving around, and the click of metal. Just once, he stayed; she lay in the dark and watched, unnoticed, as he picked up his wristwatch and handcuffs, and put the cuffs over his left wrist, timing himself.

It's not every night, but it's often enough.

He touches the cuff to his wrist, times himself, takes it away with thinly-veiled relief; he takes a breath and then closes the cuff around his wrist, not locking it, and times himself again. Then he does lock it, and his breath rasps but he pushes through ten, twenty, thirty seconds before he unlocks himself.

They've always been honest with each other, and while they may have little private moments, most of their secrets are shared. It doesn't hurt that he keeps this from her because she knows Peter and she knows he has his pride. In daylight he doesn't struggle with this, she'd see that, but in the darkness maybe he still worries that he's weak, that this little piece of metal will still get the best of him.

She doesn't ache that he won't tell her; she just aches for him. This is something he can't share, not with her, not with Neal. Of all the things he could have kept from her -- the dangerous parts of his job, all his little insecurities...when they'd been dating for a few months he'd been visibly terrified to explain to her that his last long-term relationship had been with a man, but he'd still told her. The night he crossed a line with Neal, he'd told her.

This is a small thing, but it's a new thing, and Peter doesn't really cope that well with change. Particularly when the change is his own body betraying him.

So when she wakes up sometimes because he's rolling out of the bed, or when she wakes up to find him gone, she waits for him to come back. It's never a very long wait. She mumbles enough to let him know she's awake and touches him, to remind him she's there and to reassure herself that he is, too.

She doesn't blame Neal for this. That would be stupid, and it would ruin something precious. But if Neal's there when Peter comes back, she's pleased just a little that she's the one Peter curls into, the one he seeks out.

***

Peter woke with his wrists and ankles bound, and he was getting really tired of being the one in cuffs.

His immediate reaction to the tight plastic wrapped around his wrists was that he couldn't, he _could not_ panic; he was about to panic anyway, because it was hard to breathe, when he heard Neal's voice behind him.

"Peter? Alex?" Neal called.

"Here," Peter managed.

"Shit -- are you okay?"

"Yep, just having a moment," Peter replied. "I'll get over it. Everyone all right?"

"For the moment." Alex's voice. "Where are we?"

"Dry dock," Neal answered, voice low and worried.

"What are those guys doing?" Alex asked. Peter tried to swing around so that he could see what she was talking about, because if he was going to get shot in the head he at least wanted to look the sons of bitches in the eyes first, but then he saw water burst out of the drains around the dock, and he could put two and two together.

"Got a pretty good idea," Neal said, voicing Peter's thoughts.

"Adler's taking the whole arch-villain thing pretty seriously," Peter observed. Breathing was easier, but wouldn't be for long if they didn't get out of here.

"He always had a flair for the theatrical," Neal drawled. "Peter?"

"Yeah, what?" Peter snapped, trying to work the plastic ties down his wrists.

"You doing all right?"

"I'm _fine_ ," Peter said.

"He sounds annoyed," Alex murmured.

"Better annoyed than hyperventilating," Neal said.

"Why would a Fed be hyperventilating?"

"He has a thing about being tied up, he's not a fan."

"How do you know that?" Alex said, sounding intrigued.

"Tell the world, thank you," Peter snarled. "You two have anything useful to offer?"

"Where's the cavalry, Neal?" Alex asked.

"Moz'll be here," Neal said, but he didn't sound very confident.

"We need to find a way out of these zipties," Peter insisted.

"Don't look at me, you know me and zipties don't get along," Neal said.

"How does _he_ know _that?_ " Alex said gleefully.

"He arrested me, don't get pushy," Neal said. "Alex?"

"I've got a knife," she announced, and Peter wanted to kick her for not mentioning it sooner.

On the other hand, considering she had it down her cleavage and Neal was currently extracting it with his teeth, perhaps she'd been holding it as a last resort.

Peter started when he felt hands on his wrists -- Neal had cut through his own ties _fast_ \-- but a second later his bindings were falling away, and he pushed himself up in relief, one hand grasping Neal's arm and the other patting his shoulder in mute thanks. Neal cut his ankles free and then they both crawled through the rising water to Alex, Peter holding up her head and shoulders while Neal went to work on her bindings.

They were free, but under fire from the guards, when the cavalry finally did arrive. Diana's strident yelling had never sounded so good to Peter in his life.

He left Neal and Alex to catch their breath and went straight to Diana to thank her, but even as she was telling him that Mozzie had found their signal, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye and turned. Neal and Alex were in each others' arms, foreheads pressed together; even as Peter watched, Neal tilted his head and kissed her, not exactly a brotherly kiss. Not really even a thank-god-we're-alive kiss.

And beyond them, Sara Ellis was watching from where the surveillance van was parked.

They made quite a little tableau, the four of them; Peter wasn't sure he had the energy to be jealous, just then, but he felt a vague simmer of anger in the back of his mind, something he'd probably have to deal with later. Neal's whatever-it-was with Sara was difficult enough, but Neal and Alex had actual history, and Neal _knew_ Alex's presence in his life annoyed Peter.

And Neal always had to be so damn impulsive.

Sara's eyes flicked to Peter, and he saw real hurt there. Neal, looking up as Alex pulled away, apparently saw it too; he tensed, and his eyes went wide.

Peter walked casually back to where Neal now stood alone.

"Come on, Casanova," he said drily. Neal turned to him, eyes still wide, guilt etched over his face. "Neal. This? Later. Now we have to find Adler."

"Right," Neal said, turning to look at where Sara had been standing a moment earlier. "Adler. Back to the office?"

"I hear they might have towels for us," Peter said, grasping Neal by one soaking wet arm.

***

Back when Sara had first taken on the case of the Raphael that Neal stole, the first time she worked with Peter, she'd developed a tiny little crush on him. He was good-looking and in retrospect he tolerantly put up with a lot from her, and he was funny and nice, not like the FBI agents she'd worked with in the past. He was also married, so it was harmless and kind of fun.

The first day of Neal's trial, she'd seen his wife bringing him a bag lunch; Elizabeth must have seen Sara buying her lunch from the food stand outside the courthouse, because the next day she brought Sara a lunch, too.

"You must be Sara Ellis," she'd said, offering her hand. "I'm Elizabeth, Peter's wife. I've heard a lot about you from Peter."

"I've heard a lot about you, too," Sara had said with a smile.

"I -- um, I brought you lunch," Elizabeth had offered, holding out a brown bag. "If you want it, anyway."

Sara had stammered a thank-you, surprised by the gesture, and accepted it; Elizabeth had packed her a sandwich, a bag of crackers, and a cookie. Peter apparently also got carrot sticks. For the rest of the trial, they stopped to talk a little every day, and both Elizabeth and Peter had been sympathetic when Neal was found innocent of stealing the Raphael. Peter had reminded her gently that he'd told her so, but Sara could understand why.

And she understood, now, why Elizabeth wanted both her and Neal to come to dinner -- to assuage the disappointment over not catching Adler. And, possibly, to heal the breach between her and Neal, because Peter told Elizabeth everything and would undoubtedly have mentioned to her that Neal was being _the world's biggest asshole_.

Still, she felt Elizabeth could have saved them the awkwardness. The Burkes, when their powers combined, were somewhat merciless in that regard.

The one fortunate thing about Neal was that he could talk bullshit with the best of them, and Elizabeth and Peter both had a vested interest in keeping the dinner conversation going, so between the three of them they managed to fill the silence. Sara could eat her (admittedly amazing) dinner in relative peace, cut occasionally by a stab of annoyance whenever Neal looked her way. She retreated to the couch with her wine-glass as soon as she could, while Neal and Peter were still pushing dessert around on their plates and Elizabeth was getting more wine.

"Long day for them," Elizabeth observed, joining her there, settling in comfortably. "I'm always amazed at how well people can bounce back from things like kidnapping and attempted murder."

Sara grinned at her. "I think they're more upset Adler got away."

"Not for long. Peter always gets 'em, sooner or later," Elizabeth replied. "Vincent Adler might be smart, but Peter has a read on him now. He'll find him."

She looked confident, but also fond -- like catching criminals was some quirky hobby of Peter's that she indulged because it kept him out of her hair.

"You and Peter are really happy, huh?" Sara asked. "Wife of an FBI agent...that's not easy, is it."

"Yeah, I would be lying if I said I didn't worry about him," Elizabeth admitted. "But I knew who he was when I fell in love with him."

"You never tried to change that?" Sara asked.

"No -- why would I? I mean...we're married. For better, for worse."

Sara smiled. "And now he's got Neal..."

"For better, for worse," Elizabeth laughed quietly. At the table, Neal was grinning at something Peter had said, body tucked elegantly into one of the chairs, looking completely unlike someone who'd been kidnapped -- had defused a bomb, uncovered a priceless cache of looted art, and gotten himself and two other people safely out of harm's way, all in less than twelve hours.

There was also something there, she thought -- in the way Neal looked at Peter, in the way Elizabeth talked about them both. Neal was comfortable here in their home, that shiny top con-man layer missing and a more subdued, realistic sort of man showing through underneath. She wondered if it was that this was the closest thing Neal had to a real home and real friends, or if it was just that he trusted the Burkes. And they trusted him -- Elizabeth seemed to think they could, anyway. Sara found herself trusting him at strange moments. But for all she knew, every second of this was a game to Neal, and he'd turn around and betray any of them as easy as breathing.

She wondered, a little, just how close Neal and Peter were. She'd seen Peter's expression at the dry dock as clearly as he'd seen hers. She wasn't sure if the concern and anger on his face had been on her behalf or from some aspect of his own friendship with Neal. She didn't have even the claim on him that Peter did, but she had asked him for the truth and he'd said it was over between him and Alex. And then -- knowing he'd lied, even if you could be charitable and assume it was to himself as well...

The thing was, Neal was in many ways like Peter: he was nice, which might be an act but she suspected usually wasn't, and he was incredibly smart, and very pretty. She knew it was probably a bad idea, but she'd never much been one to avoid something just because it might hurt down the line. It was what got her involved with all this in the first place.

And, as adventures went, Neal promised to be incredibly entertaining.

Which was what made her accept Neal's apology about Alex at face value -- that and the guilt clearly written on his face, because guilt was a hard emotion to fake and Neal didn't have a lot of experience with it. So she leaned in and kissed him, and he let her -- didn't take control, didn't try to push, just let her kiss him. Even after all he'd been through that day, he smelled pretty good: a hint of brackish water, but also cologne and turpentine, and lemon from dinner.

"You owe me a lunch," she told him, and Neal gave her the smallest hint of a smile, a real smile.

***

"You want to stay tonight?" Peter had asked him, after Sara left that evening. Neal had considered it, because the question now carried a new layer on top of it: did he want to stay, and did he feel okay staying after having patched things up with Sara.

"I'm tired," Neal said, honestly. "And you could use a night in with Elizabeth, I think."

"Door's always open," Peter said.

"Which is why I'm okay not opening it tonight," Neal answered, smiling. "You okay?"

"Yeah. It's a good idea, anyway. We're up early tomorrow, we'll figure out what to make of the intel they're working on, and we'll decide what to do from there. Get some rest," Peter told him, and clapped Neal on the shoulder.

Neal turned and kissed the corner of Peter's mouth, surprising them both. "I will."

Now, a good night's sleep away from that moment, he stood on the docks, in the circle of FBI agents and SWAT ops loaned to them by Shattuck with a quick call from Peter that morning. He wondered, idly, probably inappropriately, if he could do what Mike did -- find someone, settle down, be Peter's friend and co-worker. He'd never ask Mike directly about it; all the subtle hints and cues pointed to the fact that Mike liked his privacy and didn't want to talk about past loves or current ones. But however the op went today, maybe tonight he could call him up or stop by Enright's and see if Mike or Deke or Sergeant Calhoun was around.

"Adler's not getting away, Neal," Peter said, snapping him out of his thoughts. "I won't let him."

He must have seen Neal didn't have his head fully in the game. It might not be an actual rebuke, but it was close enough, and Neal set aside his other thoughts for now.

"I know," Neal said, and let Peter go do his job.

***

They heard the explosions before they saw the plume of smoke, and for a second it almost didn't register. But Peter knew from long experience that if something was blowing up, that was where Neal would be.

He outpaced the SWAT easily; Jones and Diana kept up, but when they reached the edge of the building he signaled them to hang back. If Adler was there, Peter wanted him personally, and if it was just Neal, he didn't want them or the SWAT guys firing on an innocent man.

He could hear Neal's voice, raised in protest, but not what he was saying; still, it told him all he needed to know. He glanced around the corner as another explosion rocked the walls of the building and saw two men on the ground, two on their feet.

"I got Neal on our three, Adler's facing him, back to us," he hissed to Jones. "Send Diana around the other side. Cover me. Do _not_ follow until I give the signal."

Jones nodded curtly and turned to Diana; Peter edged around the corner, trying to keep an eye on the men on the ground -- Adler's men -- and gauge how close Adler was to shooting Neal.

" -- you know that," he heard Neal say, and saw the urgency in his eyes. Neal wasn't going to look away from Adler, and not from Adler's gun, that was for sure. Peter edged further out into the unprotected yard, watching, waiting.

"You won't get away with this," Adler said. A hundred options ran through Peter's head at once; whether Neal and Adler had been in on it and Neal had double-crossed Adler, whether Adler thought Neal had set off the bombs, whether Neal _had_ set off the bombs...

No. Neal wouldn't destroy all that art. Something was amiss, here, but it wasn't the explosion.

"Goodbye, Neal," Adler added, and Peter fired before he even had time to think about it. It was like a flashback to when he'd shot Carruthers; Neal was in danger, and it was Peter's job to protect him.

Except this time Adler didn't get his shot in before Peter did.

Adler crumpled to the ground and for the first time Neal looked away from him, startled eyes finding Peter in the smoke and dust-haze. Alarms still going off in his head that something was intangibly wrong about this, Peter moved forward on autopilot to kick the gun out of Adler's limp hand. 

He was aware of Diana rushing the others from the opposite side, of Jones coming in behind him and the SWAT guys securing the area, but those were background noise. All he could really concentrate on were two things: the fact that he had killed Vincent Adler, that Adler was dead and Peter had done that, and the fact that for the first time in his life, he had absolutely no regrets. He'd shot people before, he'd killed people before; he'd killed Carruthers for shooting Neal, and he wasn't guilty about it but he'd regretted it all the same. He never liked to take a life. But the body lying between him and Neal, that was just a body. He supposed he should be grateful he didn't feel exultant. Just...satisfied.

He'd wanted to kill Adler, and he'd done it.

He could almost understand that third bullet Neal had put in his gun, now, because the world seemed momentarily different, dark and frightening. He didn't care that he'd taken a life. Before, at least, he'd always cared.

"He would have killed me," Neal said, still looking stunned, though whether that was at Adler's actions or his sudden fall, Peter couldn't tell.

"What did he mean, _you won't get away with this_?" Peter asked, trying to ground himself in the moment, trying to claw his way back to reality. Adler had held Neal at gunpoint. The shooting was justified. An op was in danger. His friend was in danger.

"I don't know," Neal said, and he seemed to mean it.

Peter swallowed, tasting smoke. "Glad you're all right," he managed.

Diana and Jones came to take Neal back to the van, then: Jones with the same careful attention he'd give to a trauma survivor, Diana with a look at Peter to make sure he didn't need a hand too. Peter shook his head, so she began walking Neal away with Jones --

And then a little piece of debris, not bigger than a postcard, hissed through the air past him. He became aware that he shouldn't be this close to the fire, that debris had been tumbling around them for some time, but this one caught his eye. It was bright blue where it wasn't edged by flame, a series of art-deco arches in a familiar configuration, a familiar style. The painting Neal had been working on that had led to their fight, the one Peter had teased him was being made for Sara. Which could only be here if Neal had put it here, or someone had put it here under his instruction.

Which was why Neal had found the warehouse so quickly. And what Adler had meant when he'd told Neal he wouldn't get away with it.

That was what was wrong.

And he'd shot Adler because of it.

Then he did feel something about the shooting: fury.

***

**Interlude: Florence Syndrome**

The art burned.

Ultimately, nothing else matters right now. The fact that Vincent Adler is dead by Peter's hand and not Neal's own; whatever Peter saw that made him think Neal did that -- the idea that Peter could think him capable of...of what, burning the art himself? Peter's anger and suspicion, none of it matters. Not for more than a minute, because the art is gone. Neal has a very solid sense of self-importance, but that art is a cultural treasure. You can find a guy fucking his boss in any building in New York. His relationship with Peter is not more important than _Self-Portrait As A Boy_.

It's stupid, though, stupid that he cares. Until a week ago that art was presumed lost forever. Given enough time, the ocean would have reclaimed the sub and the art would have rotted, become fish food or floated in flakes to the surface. The gold might have survived, but it might never have been found. But Neal saw it, touched it, and now it's gone, and that hurts, the loss, the beauty --

It's over. Kate's murderer is dead, but that's just a hollow feeling, Peter was right about that. He can't even touch it, because he's mourning the _Self-Portrait_ and all the others lost. Forever. Burned.

So when he finds the key on his dining-room table he doesn't even let himself think about the art, doesn't let himself hope. But when he walks into the storage room in the warehouse, there it is, all of it: the gold. The jewels.

And those are just afterthoughts to _the art._

He just stands there for a moment and lets the feeling suffuse him. It's not greed, it's not desire, it's _joy_. For perhaps the first time in years he feels pure, unadulterated joy, because the art is safe. All of it.

He's tired and sore, he has burns and scrapes on his hands and his shirt is scorched and filthy. But there is a pair of white cotton gloves sitting on a crate, like they were put there for him (they _were_ , whoever took this left these gloves here for him, oh God) and he puts them on and carefully, carefully begins to sift through this treasure.

Painting after painting, crate after crate. Some are familiar to him from books or even just legends; some are alien, unknown, but Neal can trace their lineage, can name their painters, can touch _all of them_. A sweep of a gloved thumb across a corner, just to say he had. Adler is dead and all of this art has been given to him and it's so beautiful.

He's startled to find he's crying. Kate is dead and her killer is dead and the art wasn't burned after all, it's here. He's crouched on the floor of the storage unit, staring at a Cranach and crying. His hands are shaking.

There's something in the edge of his vision, flitting away when he tries to look directly at it. He wonders if he's having a full-on nervous breakdown.

"Hello, my dear."

Kate's voice. Neal lifts his face, wiping it with the back of the glove. She's there, standing over him, looking down. She's wearing the same clothes she was the last time he saw her as a free man, that day in the storage unit, another storage unit far from here. He's so startled he falls on his ass, sprawling, but pushes himself up to look at her, to drink her in.

"How's it going, babe?" she asks, and smiles, but Kate never spoke that way. She sounds like Elizabeth, Elizabeth speaking in Kate's voice.

"You're dead," he says stupidly.

"I don't feel dead," she answers, still standing, looking down, face impassive. "Isn't it nice? All of this? Someone must like you very much."

Now she sounds like Alex. Neal presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, stars dancing against his eyelids. When he opens them she's gone, but there's something warm against his arm.

"You're pretty messed up," Peter says.

Peter's not like Kate; he's sitting next to Neal, knees drawn up, arms resting casually on them. He has a string of pearls in one hand.

"Kate's dead," Neal tells him. Peter nods, rolling the pearls over his fingers. Peter would never do that; he's not so easily impressed by mere things. And he's contaminating evidence. Peter wouldn't do that.

"Yes, she is," Peter agrees. "But then I'm not really here either, am I?"

"You feel real," Neal says.

"Are you going to tell me about this?" Peter asks, gesturing with one hand, sweeping broadly to take in the treasure. God, there's a fucking _chandelier_ in one corner.

"Don't," a voice says sharply. Kate's back. Neal tries to breathe, mostly succeeds. "Don't tell him, Neal, it doesn't belong to him."

"It doesn't belong to you, either," Peter says to her.

"You're the reason I'm -- "

"Stop, please," Neal begs, covering his ears with his hands. When he lowers them again, there's silence, but Peter's still warm against him, Kate's still looking down.

"Vincent's dead," he tells Kate. "And I'm sorry, but you are too. You can't be here."

Kate crouches, and when her hand touches his chin, it's warm. "See you around, Neal."

"I love you," Neal tells her, and closes his eyes.

She's gone when he opens them, but Peter isn't.

"So?" Peter prompts. "What do we do with all this, Neal?"

"It's over," Neal says. Peter regards him, impassive. "Kate's dead. Vincent's dead, you know that, you shot him. The art's safe."

"For now."

"Why can't I stop shaking?"

Peter lifts one arm around Neal's shoulders and Neal leans into him. He _feels real_ , is the thing.

"You were good," Peter says. "You were so good, Neal. Shh. It's okay. You were good."

It's what he wants to hear from Peter -- the real Peter -- so very badly. Neal presses his face into Peter's shoulder, even though Peter's not really there, and cries himself into exhaustion.

He wakes later -- minutes, hours, hell, for all he knows, days later -- curled on his side with his cheek against the cold cement, a string of pearls looped over his fingers.

He once saw a man collapse in the middle of the Sistine Chapel, a college student on exchange from America. There's a -- disease? a condition? -- he's seen it, where people exposed to so much beautiful art become overwhelmed. They shake, and can't breathe, and they hallucinate. He's never experienced it himself, until now, and waking up alone with the memory of Kate's ghost and Peter's avatar makes his skin crawl.

He tries not to look at the paintings as he racks them carefully back into their crates. He'll do an inventory later. For now, it's enough that they're safe.

Neal Caffrey is no fool. He knows the imaginary Peter's question is _the_ question. Neal is free of Adler, free of the duty to avenge Kate. He doesn't need the FBI anymore, except to keep him out of prison, and he can do that for himself with this kind of resource. Peter doesn't trust him enough to believe he wouldn't burn all this to the ground out of vengeance. (Maybe Peter's right not to trust him.)

So that's what he has to decide.

_Are you going to tell Peter?_

**Author's Note:**

> References:  
>  **[Oarsmen Rowing on the Yerres](http://www.brooklynmuseum.org/exhibitions/caillebotte/oarsmen_rowing.php)** and **[The Floor Scrapers](http://www.brooklynmuseum.org/exhibitions/caillebotte/floor_scrapers.php)** , Gustave Caillebotte  
> Vincenzo Peruggia's **[theft of the Mona Lisa](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vincenzo_Peruggia)**  
>  **[Handcuff cookies!](http://www.flickr.com/photos/sweetsugarbelle/3868287392/in/photostream/)**

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Update - Exquisite - Continued](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4811327) by [Joycee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joycee/pseuds/Joycee)




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